Suicide Kings
by ctjay00187
Summary: AU. Down in FCW, William Regal decided not to give Dean Ambrose a rematch. He thought things would end there, but that was just the beginning. Things never looked the same afterward. Multiple slash pairings.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: New story time. This one will feature several slash pairings and plot. Wanted to say thanks to everybody who reviewed my other story - "Between Places." This is actually the story that I was trying to write when "Between Places" came at me with that weird-ass twist. Anyway, enjoy.

**"Suicide Kings"**

xXx

In a deck of cards, the King of Hearts is depicted as committing suicide by sticking a sword through his own head. Some have wondered, though, whether that's the king's hand holding the sword or someone else's.

"_If you're a king, I'm an ace."  
_-Jon Moxley

xXx

**_Now:  
__New Orleans, April 2014_**

There's a buzz backstage tonight.

William Regal, the man in black, can feel it like current skittering just under his skin as he strolls through the corridor: Superstars and Divas perched on equipment boxes and clustered in corners, their low voices everywhere like the drone of bees around a hive, everyone _looking,_ everyone _watching, _everyone _expectant_.

It's not Regal himself they're watching, of course; no, indeed, his days of being any kind of attraction at a wrestling show have long gone. For all that no one even makes eye contact with him, he might as well be the Invisible Man.

That suits him fine.

He's a man on a mission.

It's _Wrestlemania_, and there's no time to lose focus.

The buzz is for the WWE Championship match, the main event, where Daniel Bryan will face CM Punk in an Iron Man match that everyone is predicting will be one for the ages.

While Regal doesn't doubt that a bit, it's not the match itself he's particularly concerned about.

It _is_ satisfying, he supposes, that Daniel, his former student and protegé, is in the main event in a match that will actually close out _Wrestlemania_ (rather than John Cena's ill-conceived match with the Undertaker), and he, like everyone else, will be watching closely.

The match, and what comes after.

He rounds a corner, footsteps echoing thumping dully over the old concrete floor, but draws to a sudden stop when he sees the very person he's looking for just up ahead.

What stopped him is that, as is so often the case of late, Dean Ambrose is not alone.

He and Shield-mate Roman Reigns are standing together near one of the entrances to the arena proper, ostensibly watching the crew finish setting up the stage. Reigns' tag belt is sitting in a haphazard heap on an equipment crate next to them, forgotten.

Apparently, along with Seth Rollins, who is himself nowhere to be found.

The most interesting thing about this picture, though, Regal thinks, is the possessive hand Reigns is running along Ambrose's lower back, and the subtle way Ambrose is leaning against him – nothing obvious if viewed from the front, but unmistakable from Regal's angle.

In the middle of all the chaos and voices buzzing backstage, these two still somehow find a way to slip away for some quiet time together.

Mouth twisting into a parody of a smile, Regal backs away and leaves them to it.

His business with Ambrose can wait a little longer, he supposes, as he instead heads off to find Wade.

Let the boys have their moment's peace.

God knows when they'll get another.

xXx

**_Then:  
__Tampa, late February 2012_**

Some Friday afternoon.

The late afternoon sky looked punched-in and bruised, heavy gray clouds closing out the sun like curtains drawn tight against a hovering streetlight. It was muggy out, unseasonably hot, and claustrophobic like the inside of a damp burlap sack.

It was the kind of day where everything felt _on the verge_, everything felt like it was _right on the edge_, but it was a tease.

Like sex in a dream, it wasn't actually going to amount to anything.

William Regal adjusted his suit coat, glared up at the stifling curtain overhead, and shakes his hair out of his face, an impatient flick that sent a drop of sweat down the back of his neck.

Grumbling invective under his breath, he pulled the FCW arena's staff entrance door open and was nearly run over by one of the production staffers, who had a cell phone glued to his ear and was talking away a mile a minute.

The little git jigged sideways and didn't even look up as he headed for the carpark. Regal found himself checking an urge to hike up a foot to help him along.

Inside this converted grocery store, it was at least a bit cooler, with several undersized air conditioning units managing to produce breath of something that _felt_ like decently chilled air, although it did little to cool his ire.

Coming to this arena these days, here in sunny Florida, tended to test his temper.

Ten steps.

He made it ten steps down the empty back hallway before the _reason_ for his current irritation manifested itself in a whiff of cheap after shave, mint gum, and cigarettes, and a _presence_ behind him, right at his shoulder.

Regal stopped walking, but didn't turn. "Not today," he said

Ambrose let out a breath that was more an annoyed huff than a sigh. "When?"

They had had this same, tiresome conversation nearly every day for the past three months.

Regal's answer was always, _Soon_.

Ambrose's reply would then be, _It fuckin' better be._

At this point, Regal wasn't sure which of them he was tormenting more, drawing it out like this.

It had been such delightful fun the first few weeks, watching the frustration creep into Ambrose's eyes, and that angry red flush spreading up his neck like ink spilling slowly across a table.

He had, he could admit now, miscalculated just how persistent Ambrose could be. Ambrose hadn't given up after a few weeks of being put off and ignored; if anything he'd grown more dogged in his pursuit, and there were days, especially lately, where Regal honestly couldn't tell which of them was the hunter and which the prey.

A curious thing, that.

Curious, and strange: he'd been _goading_ the boy, _taunting_ him, even as he'd admitted to anyone who asked that Ambrose would most likely be the one who ended his career.

Stalling, he supposed, because in the deepest part of him, as much as he wanted to get this match over with, as much as he wanted an _end_, there was still a part of him that wasn't quite ready for that.

Not ready at all.

As he stood there that particular day, staring down an empty hallway, ill-tempered and over-heated, Dean Ambrose all but glued to his back, Regal suddenly thought: _It doesn't have to be_.

"No," he said then.

There was a pause. "What?"

Regal turned, then, to look at Ambrose, to study him. The boy, clad in his usual cheap white tee shirt and torn jeans, was the very picture of frowning uncertainty. He'd gotten a haircut recently and now had his messy hair down over his forehead; he was completely clean-shaven for a change, as well, which made him look even more boyish.

Good looks and a devilish gleam in his eye, but, oh there was something much darker lurking underneath all that, wasn't there?

It was there, and it was just waiting for whatever Regal was about to say.

With a good deal of relish, Regal smiled at him and said, "I never intended to give you another match, you know. I'm not _going_ to. I've indulged this childish game long enough. It's time to stop."

Anger sparked quickly, darkening Ambrose's eyes. "What do you mean you're not giving me another match? You _owe _me-"

"I don't owe you anything," Regal cut him off. "You _lost_. That's hardly my problem." Ambrose twitched forward, hands clenched. Regal held his ground, lifting his chin. "I'll have you thrown out. Permanently. _Don't_ test me."

His face knotted like a wet dishrag, Ambrose snarled, "You can't fucking do this. You've been telling me for _months_ I'd get this match. You can't just-"

"I can," Regal said over him, "and I will. I apologize if I've led you to _think_ I intended to give you the match, but I don't recall ever _actually _committing to it." Ambrose twitched again. "_Don't_."

Ambrose's jaw clenched. His eyes were blazing with some kind unholy fire, his neck was flushing dark, and the muscles in his arms were bunching. "This is all I _have_, you bastard," he said, voice gone lethally quiet. "You can't fuckin' take this away from me. I _earned _that goddamn match. _You can't take it away from me_."

"It was never promised you in the first place," Regal said. "Again, my apologies for the confusion, my boy. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He turned to walk away, only to stop when a hand clamped vise-line onto his shoulder.

"Don't you fuckin' walk away from me, you chicken-shit son of a bitch. You think I don't know what this is? You're afraid I'm gonna fuckin' end-"

Regal never gave him time to finish. He twisted in Ambrose's grip, turning _toward _him rather than away, and brought one knee and one hand up as he did. He drove his knee hard up into the fork of Ambrose's crotch, while his hand caught hold of Ambrose's throat.

All the color drained from Ambrose's face, and he sagged forward a bit. With Regal's hand clamped firmly around his throat, the only sound that came out was a rusty croak.

Regal used his momentary advantage to slam Ambrose back into the wall right next to the door. The back of Ambrose's head made brisk contact with the cinder block, but he barely blinked. His hands were cradling his crotch. His face was as chalky as his tee shirt.

Without an iota of sympathy, Regal said, "I've indulged your childish histrionics as far as I intend to. I owe you nothing – not my career, not another match, not the bloody time of day. I've no wish to fight you. This ends now. Are we understood?"

"Fuck you," Ambrose croaked. It was a weak, pathetic sound. "Coward."

Regal slammed him against the wall again, and then squeezed his throat hard enough to strangle him. "It ends now," he said quietly. "Or I'll take everything. Are we understood?"

For a moment, Regal was sure Ambrose would keep fighting.

Rage and pain and something _wounded_ blazed in the boy's eyes, down deep, even as his face grew red and his chest heaved in a vain effort to push air past Regal's fist. He was a born fighter, this one, and giving up, even the face of a lost cause, ran counter to every instinct he had.

Eventually, however, his survival instinct must have overridden his need to fight. Though the rage never left his eyes, he jerked his head up and down just once.

Regal let go and stepped back.

Ambrose took a heaving gasp of a breath and began to cough. He sagged back against the wall, then slid down it as his knees buckled. "You son of a bitch," he said hoarsely.

"Indeed," Regal said. He slipped his hands in his pockets, and, feeling as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, he turned away.

"'S was all I had," Ambrose croaked behind him. "Don't you understand? This was all I had left."

Regal, finding he had no real answer for that, said nothing at all.

Instead, he walked away, leaving Dean Ambrose in a heap on the floor behind him.

Although he felt as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders, although he found himself on the verge of smiling with his sudden relief, part of him couldn't help thinking that this was far from over.

xXx

He had no idea how right he was.

Nor did he realize that he himself would be the reason.

xXx

A/N: Oh, we've only just begun. This is going to be a bit of a slow burn.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews. Conversations and fallout. Bit on slow side again, but we're getting there. Enjoy.

**_Now_:**  
**_New Orleans, April 2014_**

Regal _intends_ to leave Reigns and Ambrose alone at the stadium's field entrance and go find Wade, anyway, but he no sooner backs around the corner than he hears Ambrose call over, annoyed, "What do you want, Regal?"

Chuckling, Regal returns to the corner. "I didn't think you saw me," he says, leaning sideways against the wall. "I didn't want to interrupt. You two appeared to be having a...moment."

Ambrose, who has detached himself from Reigns' side and is now approaching, shakes his head. "Just watchin' the crew set up," he says. He stops near a stack of equipment crates some ten feet away. "Waiting for Seth."

Regal makes a show of looking around. "Where _is_ he, anyway? Off dying his hair?"

"Fucked if I know," Ambrose says shortly. "What _do_ you want?"

"Well, you're in a fine mood tonight, aren't you?"

Ambrose just snorts.

He's added a fair bit of muscle in the last eighteen months, but still doesn't look all that big compared to Reigns. Reigns, who's taken a few steps unobtrusive toward them, is built like a young bull: deep in the chest, massive shoulders, and thick through the waist and legs. In his black tactical vest and black pants, he cuts an intimidating figure. Ambrose, meanwhile, has a more classic swimmer's build with his broad shoulders, long arms, and lean waist – all of which are, in Regal's opinion, shown off quite nicely by the tight black shirt and black cargo pants he's wearing.

He's not _as_ menacing as Reigns, but glowering as he is now, he's still quite intimidating.

When it becomes clear he's not going to answer, Regal shifts, smiles, and says, "I wanted to drop by and wish you the best of luck tonight, actually."

"Luck," Ambrose mutters, the word like a sneer. "Punk got it right – luck is for losers. Like your boy Barrett."

"Oh, he doesn't need luck." Since he aligned himself with Regal in January, Wade has been on an exceptional hot streak. He hasn't lost a match, in fact, is the odds-on favorite to win the Money in the Bank briefcase tonight.

Ambrose's mouth twists like he's bitten a lemon. "No, he has you."

Regal feels his smile widen and doesn't fight it. "Yes, he does," he says. "Shame your Shield-mates have been barred from ringside, isn't it? D'you know, I checked the betting odds on the match just a bit ago, and since you _don't_ have your team, the bookmakers put you at around a three hundred to one long-shot. Even Kofi Kingston has better odds than that..."

"Three hundred to one, huh?" Ambrose says. Regal nods. "That fuckin' figures."

"Considering you haven't won a match all year, I thought that was actually rather generous of them."

"Ain't the bookmakers who determine who wins," Ambrose drawls. "And the way I figure, I got just as good a shot as anyone else – with or without you there fucking shit up."

"Well, I suppose we'll see, won't we?"

"Guess so." Eyes suddenly gone cold, Ambrose pushes away from the equipment stacks and turns to head back over to Reigns, who's standing with his arms folded over his massive chest, watching him with open concern. "Now get the fuck outta here before I kick your ass into next month."

"Oh, and here I thought you were one of the good guys now," Regal says, mock-wounded. "You don't _do_ that anymore, remember? You and your reformed Hounds of Justice are enforcers of all that is truly good and just in the WWE. You would _never_ stoop to attacking a man unprovoked."

Ambrose stops and shoots Regal a tight, lethal look over his shoulder.

(_Wouldn't I?_)

Though the sight of it sends a chill down Regal's spine, he smiles just the same.

True villains, he thinks as he turns to leave once again, may try to convince themselves they can fight on the side of the great and good, but in the end, they can never change what they really are.

Not really.

xXx

**_Then:  
__Tampa, early March 2012_**

It was about two weeks later when things made their unexpected ninety-degree shift.

They had been two mercifully quiet weeks for Regal, with Ambrose gone off to terrorize some of the main roster in dark matches.

Tonight, though, they were taping in front of a decent-sized crowd, and Ambrose was scheduled to face James Bronson in a submissions match in the main event.

Regal, sat right side of Jim Ross at the commentary table, spent as much of his evening ignoring Jim Ross's questions about "the situation with you and Dean Ambrose" as he did making any kind of productive contributions to match commentary.

Ambrose hadn't met Regal at the door tonight, which Regal had found both a relief and just a touch disappointing – not that he _wanted_ Ambrose to be at the door, exactly ; it was just he'd gotten used to it, the way one might get used to an obnoxious noise. The first few moments after the noise finally stopped, almost inevitably things seemed too quiet.

After what felt like hours, it was time for the main event.

Regal felt dread like a stone into his stomach.

Ambrose's ring entrance, though, was uneventful: he simply walked to the ring, cold and coiled, climbed in, and took off his jacket – no posturing, no cocky displays, no real acknowledgment of the crowd (which, as it's wont to do when he's not having matches against Seth Rollins, is cheering him quite vocally) or the commentators.

James Bronson, his opponent, was a large bald man who came to the WWE as a trained submissions specialist, one who'd never tapped out before. That alone should have made him a heavy favorite (something Jim Ross even commented on), but in the sharp, relentless cool of Ambrose's eyes Regal saw a very different truth.

And, really, once the match began, there was no question who'd won. Ambrose, whose face was atypically expressionless and whose eyes were cold rather than full of their usual malicious glee, moved around the ring with uncommon focus, gaze never once breaking from his opponent. James Bronson had at least fifty pounds on him, but Ambrose had a counter for every move Bronson made, fought his way out of several badly-applied arm bars and other rest holds, and never once appeared to be in anything less but complete control of both the pace of the match and himself.

Ambrose had clearly scouted Bronson very well; Bronson, on the other hand, seemed completely lost.

It was, Regal thought as he watched Ambrose drop kick Bronson's knees out from under him and then immediately apply a half crab, quite impressive to see Ambrose operating with such calculated brutality.

With all his quirks – his relentless obsessions, his chaotic and oftentimes childish behavior, his unpredictable moods – it was easy to overlook the fact that Dean Ambrose was a very smart young man.

He could have been a champion by now, but for the fact that he tended to get in his own way.

Bit of a shame, Regal though idly, that no one had ever tried to harness that chaos, to try to steer it toward more productive ends.

Bronson finally managed to fight his way to the ropes. Ambrose let go and backed off, hands raised. Bronson managed to stagger to his feet, but Ambrose raced against the drops and took him down with another crisp drop kick to the knee. Bronson landed face-down, and fast as a striking snake, Ambrose tied Bronson up in a Sharpshooter. His expression remained hard, cold, and, uncharacteristically, he never said a word.

Meanwhile a near three-hundred pound man looked and sounded like he was in agony. The crowd roared its approval.

"That was well-played," Regal said, finally remembering he was supposed to be providing commentary.

JR glanced over. "Ambrose is certainly looking sharp tonight, Mr. Regal."

"Yes, he is," Regal said. "He's come with a clear game plan – to ground his opponent – and so far he's executed it perfectly. This is a textbook example of how a wrestler can overcome a size advantage."

"For somebody who isn't a submission specialist," JR said, "Ambrose is really cruising."

"He might not be a submission specialist," Regal said, "but I know he's studied my old tapes, and I'd wager he studied Bronson's, so that gives him a something to work with. Scouting your opponent, _knowing_ who you're getting in the ring with, can make a tremendous difference."

"It certainly appears to be the case now." JR paused, and Regal watched in the monitor as Bronson tried to claw his way to the ropes. Ambrose dragged him back toward the middle of the ring and sat back even further, wrenching Bronson's knees and back to a point that looked like something was going to snap. The ref was right there, but Bronson refused to tap out. "Bronson is certainly putting up a fight, but you have to wonder how much longer he can hang in there."

"The amount of strain on his back and knees right now has is excruciating. I've been in that hold before, and you can't take a full breath, your back is screaming bloody murder, and your knees feel like they're going to snap. It's quite miserable."

JR glanced over. "I can see why you're avoiding getting back into the ring with him, then," he said, the words coated with disapproval.

"I'm not avoiding anything," Regal said over him. "It's always been my choice, and I've chosen not to."

"Some would call that a cowardly act."

"Some would," Regal said. In the ring, Bronson, his face contorted with pain and fury, began to make for the ropes again. "I'm not one of them."

"Then what would you call it?"

"Being smart enough to know when to walk away. That's one bonfire I'm not going to stick my hand into again."

Bronson once managed to drag himself to the ropes, sparing Regal from whatever inane answer JR might have had for him. The ref forced Ambrose to break the hold, which Ambrose did, taking several deliberate steps back. This time, he pulled his knee pad down , pointed his fingers like he was shooting a gun, then took off running.

The Regal Knee smashed across Bronson's face. Ambrose followed that quickly with the Regal Stretch, and not five seconds later, an MMA-trained submission specialist who'd never tapped out before was slapping the canvas. The crowd cheered.

Regal found himself suppressing a satisfied little smile as the ref stood up signaled for the bell.

Ambrose, unsurprisingly, didn't let go after the bell rang; instead, he reared back, the fingers he'd laced under Bronson's chin yanking up viciously while sat down even harder on Bronson's legs. The big man howled in pain, and continued to slap the canvas while the crowd suddenly began to boo.

The ref tried to break the hold. Ambrose let go just long enough to send the ref headfirst out of the ring, and then twisted Bronson back up again.

"Look at that!" JR said in tones of disgust, as the bell continued to ring. "Ambrose already won the match, but he's refusing to let Bronson go!"

Ambrose turned his head toward the announce table, toward _Regal_, slowly, the way a villain in an old horror movie might.

"What's Ambrose doing...?"

Regal lost the rest of what JR was saying as he met Ambrose stare for stare. He stood then, irritable but oddly energized, and made his way over to the ring, never once breaking eye contact.

Pausing at the edge of the ring, but safely beyond Ambrose's reach, he said, "I'm not sure exactly what you're trying to prove here, but you're not getting your rematch, so I'd advise you to quit wasting your time."

That frozen, deadly look never once changing, Ambrose said, "Oh, I'm just getting started."

"This is over," Regal said. "Remember what I said. _Everything_."

One side of Ambrose's mouth knifed up into a sharp little smirk. "You think I'm scared of you?" he said. "Go ahead. I _dare_ you. I-"

"Get 'im off me!" Bronson grunted just then. The top of his head was dark red. His hand beat ineffectually at the air and at Ambrose's hands. "Get 'im off me."

Ambrose tightened his grip on Bronson's chin and leaned back even further, twisting the big man's torso to a point that it looked like something was going to have to give soon. Tendons stood out in Ambrose's forearms, but there was no strain in his voice whatsoever when he shook Bronson a bit and said, coldly, "Shut up or I'll snap your back."

Bronson fell silent.

Regal stood utterly transfixed at the sight, caught up for a moment in a tidal rush of wicked pleasure and pride and envy. Ambrose, his head high and eyes burning like gas lights, his face flushed and sweat-damp and twisted, looked positively inhuman, but, oh, he was magnificent.

The very face of Regal's own viciousness staring right back at him.

He didn't look away.

Before either of them could get another word in, though, half a dozen men emerged from behind the curtain and made for the ring.

Regal, swallowing down a sharp blade of irritation, shook his head and turned to leave.

"Don't you walk away from me!" he heard Ambrose yell behind him. "Dammit, don't you walk away!" A moment later, he was shouting, "Get off me! Get off me!"

Regal kept right on walking until the voice faded away.

What he wanted, what he _needed_, was a few minutes to himself to collect himself, to _think_. He found himself headed for a quiet corner of the building, intending to do just that.

Which, naturally, was when Dusty Rhodes, the man nominally in charge of FCW and a bloody mountain of a man, bulled his way over, having ostensibly pried himself out of his office.

"And just _what_ in the damn hell was that?" he asked, voice loud enough to echo off every conceivable corner of the tiny space. "This has gone on long..."

Regal tuned him down to a low drone, background noise, static. His mind's eye, that wicked thing, pushed forward an image of himself driving a straight left hand into Dusty's nose, turning it as swollen as the rest of him. Good sense kept his hand still, of course, but he couldn't deny that even the mere thought sent a small surge of that poisoned pleasure through him.

He'd spent most of his time since the last match either winding Ambrose up or ignoring him altogether (mostly the latter); the few times he'd been at ringside to watch, he'd been too preoccupied with the thought of his own demise to enjoy what he was seeing Ambrose do – the way he had back when Ambrose first burst onto the scene.

He had watched at first with fascination, and then later, privately, with pleasure and envy and even a touch of desire as Ambrose had rained his own special brand of chaotic hell down on absolutely everyone in FCW's main event scene. With his wicked, spiteful charm and absolute disregard for rules or authority, he'd injected color and vibrancy into what had begun to feel to Regal like a bland watercolor landscape.

After the attack and after the first match, that all changed of course, but seeing Ambrose in the ring tonight, so bloody triumphant and looking capable of just about anything, it woke all that right back up.

"...and I wanna know what you're gonna do about it, Steven!"

Regal frowned. "William," he said, correcting Dusty for what had to be the hundredth time.

This week.

As always, Dusty ignored him. "He's out of control."

"Then as you are his boss, I suggest you step in and do something," Regal said, irritation clipping the edges of his words. "I don't see why you're even bothering me with it."

Dusty's round moon face pinched and folded itself into an expression that might just as well have been constipation as consternation. "You caused the problem," he said. "_You_ fix it."

Regal shook his head. "I didn't cause anyth-"

"You've been leadin' that boy around by his damn nose for _months_ lettin' him he's gonna get another shot at you," Dusty said over him, voice climbing in volume. "You backing out, that's cruel – even for you. But you wann really go down that road, that's fine." _Thass faihn_. "Just make it right. Talk to him or somethin'. Otherwise I'm gonna fire him, and you're gonna have to explain everything to Triple H. And you know what a hard-on he's got for this kid." He shook his head then, planted his hands on his rather wide hips, and before Regal had a chance to get a word in edgewise, asked, "What _I_ wanna know is, why'd you change your mind?"

"Why did I 'chicken out,' as you all seem to think?" Regal squinted up at the ceiling, frowning. "Would you do it? If you knew that it would likely be the last time you ever got into the ring with someone, would you?"

Dusty tucked his chin, frowning. The light overhead cast shadows across his face, and made the already bruised-looking skin under his eyes look black. It gave him the appearance of a mournful hound dog. "Yeah," he said at last. "I never ran from a fight in my life. Not when it mattered. And if I _knew_ it was gonna be my last match? Why, I'd make sure I gave 'em a show they'd never forget."

"I suppose that's the difference between us, then."

"Well, and you never know. Maybe your career won't be over. You gave 'im a hell of a fight last time..."

_Maybe yoah cuhreah won be ovah_.

At that, Regal did smile. It felt bitter. "After what I saw out there tonight, it's not my career I'm concerned about."

Dusty blinked. "He wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't he?"

Just then a tremendous racked exploded around them: voices shouting, things being slammed around, and, on top of all of that, Dean Ambrose screaming his fool head off.

Regal glanced at Dusty, who turned to lead the way over to the source of the commotion. It was a just a confusion of flailing limbs and raised voices as everyone was trying to out-shout everyone else in order to get control of the situation. Dusty, like the bull he was, charged headfirst into the fray, yelling, "God dammit, that's _enough_."

"Let me _go_," Regal heard Ambrose yell from somewhere near the middle of the fray.

"You calm the hell down, Ambrose," Dusty snapped at him. "You two, get off him. Now."

Regal slipped between Leakee and Leo Kruger and made his way into the thick of things. One of the referees and Seth Rollins were both backing away from Ambrose, eyeing him like a dog who was probably going to bite them. Dusty stood just in front of him, hands clenched at _his_ sides.

Ambrose, who was still in his ring gear, was glaring at three of them, wild-eyed and red-faced, hands raised like he wanted to start swinging. Regal, from his place beside Dusty, could see several angry marks rising on his arms and chest.

When he saw Regal, Ambrose seemed to dismiss everyone else from mind; blue eyes burning like a couple of pilot lights blazed out from beneath lowered brow.

Regal pushed right up into his face, staring him down. "Come with me," he said, and turned to make his way out of the crowd. He ignored everyone – Dusty, the other wrestlers, and the referees – who looked questions at him, and didn't even stop to see if Ambrose was following.

He didn't have to; he could _feel_ the bloody boy at his shoulder, just like he had nearly every day for four straight months. It was a presence he was sure he could identify blindfolded.

Neither he nor Ambrose said a word as he led them out the staff exit and out into a warm, quiet night. After a second's thought, he turned right at the door and headed for the narrow alleyway between the building and the carpark – the one place they could be guaranteed a little privacy at this time of evening.

The alley was bracketed on both sides by the building and a chain link fence, had three large black garbage bins lined up along the the building side, and was just wide enough for a truck to pass through. On a cloudy moonless night like this, it was quite dark, save the lone spot between a couple of the bins where there a light had been attached to the building.

It was to this lighted area Regal took Ambrose. He was careful to keep himself between Ambrose and the chain link, which necessarily forced Ambrose to move into the gap between the two bins.

He hardly seemed to notice: he was glaring at Regal for all he was worth, teeth bared in a silent, savage snarl, hands up like he was itching for a fight.

Regal took a breath. "I don't want to fight you, Ambrose. I brought you out here to _talk_."

"I don't wanna fuckin' talk," Ambrose growled. "I'm done fuckin' talking. I want my fuckin' match."

"I already told you no." Regal took a step forward.

Ambrose didn't move. "Give me my fuckin' match. I earned it. I _deserve_ it."

Regal took another step forward. "You haven't, you don't, and I'm not giving it to you. I already warned you what would happen if you went down this road."

"What are you gonna do me, huh? What are you gonna take? This was all I had. I don't have anything else, you fucking bastard." He raised a hand again like he was about to throw a punch.

That straight left Regal'd wanted to smash into Dusty's face shot out almost of its own volition and smashed into Ambrose's. He didn't pull the punch, just let it crash land somewhere between Ambrose's nose and mouth hard enough to send the boy staggering back into the wall behind him. One hand flew up to his face.

"Son of a _bitch_," he growled, eyes wide with shock.

"If you'd like another one," Regal said, stepping closer to prevent Ambrose from escaping, "by all means, continue to act like a child. Otherwise, get yourself together, calm down, and let's talk about this like adults, shall we?"

Instead of answering, Ambrose pulled his hand away from his face. His fingers came away wet with blood that Regal saw had oozed out of his nose. It wasn't much, but there was still some smeared on his upper lip. Ambrose swiped the heel of his other hand over it, then, much to Regal's consternation, wiped both his hands on his trunks.

Ambrose sniffled, wrinkled his nose, and, evidently deciding nothing was broken, took a breath and straightened away from the wall. It was only then that he appeared to notice he was penned in by the two bins on either side, the wall behind him, and Regal in front of him.

Several long, tense moments passed while he continued to take in the situation. At long last, he shook his head and said, "Well, I guess I kinda don't have a choice here, do I? Fine. You want to talk, then talk. Not like I can stop you."

Regal sighed, quietly, and nodded. The funny thing, he thought, as he tried to decide where he wanted to begin, was that for all that they'd circled around each other these last few months, they'd never really had an actual conversation before. "I suppose," he finally said, "the part I'm having trouble understanding is why you're so _stuck_ on this idea of having another match with me. You've lost plenty of matches before now, and it's never seemed to faze you – not like this."

"Well, yeah," Ambrose said, "'cuz either I've already beaten 'em or I'll have another shot at it down the road. Or I just want to beat the crap out of them and I don't care if I lose."

"I see," Regal said.

Ambrose glanced down the empty alleyway and took another deep breath, clearly making an effort to pull himself together. "You really that afraid of what's gonna happen if you give me another shot? You saw what I did tonight..."

"Which do you mean? The match or the temper tantrum afterward?" Regal asked. "You did well in the match, I'll grant you, but what you did afterward was childish."

He said this last for reaction's sake, to try to push Ambrose's buttons, but Ambrose dragged his attention away from the alley to give Regal a narrow look. "From where I was sitting, looked like you were kinda enjoying it," he said. "But don't change the subject. You wanted to fuckin' talk, so fuckin' talk already. I ain't got all night."

"Oh, I am I keeping you from something? Another evening of trawling the bottom of the barrel for your next conquest, perhaps?"

Ambrose folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. "What about it?"

"Some people don't actually like being chased, you know."

"Yeah, that's true," Ambrose said. "Funny thing is, though, some people _say_ they don't like it, but you can tell they get off on it – stringing the chaser along, lettin' 'em _think_ they've got a shot." He shook his head. "Why I got so stuck on this is 'cuz I knew there'd be a payoff eventually. I figured you were just ignoring me and all that shit 'cuz you were trying to fuck with my head. I won't lie, it _was_ frustrating, but I've been thinkin' about it and it's like, yeah, that's the kind of shit you _do_. You fuck with my head and get me so twisted around that by the time we _do_ step in the ring, I'm not thinking straight, I make a big mistake, and you take advantage."

He shrugged when he caught Regal staring. "I know I act like it sometimes, but I'm not fuckin' stupid," he said. "Like, I am _positive _you were planning to give me that match. I mean, you say you weren't, but I think you're full of shit. I don't know what happened – if it was everybody getting on your case about it, or if it was me, or if you just woke up one morning and decided you actually don't want your career to be over or what – but _something_ made you bitch out. And that's what I don't get. We've had this thing for six fuckin' months, and you're just gonna bow out now like some pussy little bitch? I don't think so. What the fuck happened?"

Regal closed his mouth.

_I'm not stupid_.

No, indeed not.

He stood there just watching Ambrose as this all sunk in, caught somewhere between seething anger and grudging admiration.

There Ambrose was, wearing only his ring boots and trunks, bloody-faced, cold in the eyes, trapped in a small space with his back literally against the wall, and he had the gall – the stupidity – to fire a shot like that across Regal's bow. He'd come at Bronson the same way earlier tonight: headfirst, calculated and methodical, unrelenting.

It was something to behold.

It was also what made the anger come forward.

"You're not stupid, no," he said, very quietly. "What you are is a naïve, delusional, short-sighted _boy._ You've wasted six months chasing me for a match that means nothing to anyone except you You've spent six months building up a feud between us that in reality only exists _here_." He tapped Ambrose's forehead. Ambrose flinched and batted Regal's hand away. "The reality is, while you've been fighting your imaginary war with me, Seth Rollins has won every title in the company and has made himself into a big star. The reality is, you've lost every match that means anything. The reality is, you've gotten so far away from the young man who walked into the company like he wanted to grab it by its throat and shake it to its foundations that I barely recognize you.

"No," he went on, "I'm not prepared to risk you ending my career, or anything else for that matter. You've done nothing to earn it. There are men I've put through _far_ worse who deserve it _far_ more, and when I'm _ready_, I'll decide for myself which of them I'll ask to step in the ring with me. It won't be you – not again."

Ambrose glanced off down the alley again. His mouth was pinched into a painful-looking little smile. "You really are just like everyone else," he said, his voice low and tight. "Thought you were different, but you're not, are you? You're just another asshole lined up to take shit away from me. You pull your cards off the table, you walk away, you leave me out in the cold – just like everyone always does. You call yourself a villain, you say you're different, but the whole world is full of people just like you." He met Regal's gaze with tired, angry eyes and said, "I wanna rip your fuckin' heart out, man."

There was no real heat behind that, so Regal merely smiled. "There's no need for theatrics, my boy." Then, without really even knowing what he was going to say, he said, "Believe it or not, I'm trying to help you."

"_Help_ me? The fuck are you talking about?"

"If you really want to prove yourself, it isn't me you need to be going after. Yes, I know you've _got_ to prove you can beat me, but what does beating me actually gain you? It doesn't get you any closer to being a champion – which you _should_ be – and it doesn't get you any closer to the top, which is where you yourself said you wanted to be."

Ambrose gave him another narrow look. "It's not about what it gains me. It's just about proving once and for all that I _can_. But I guess we'll never know, will we?"

"You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope."

Regal glanced up at the overhead light as he considered that. "All right," he said at last. "What if I gave you a chance to earn your rematch?"

"How?"

"First, you win the FCW Championship, and then you win the WWE Championship."

"..._what_?"

"If you want that rematch, you'll have to climb all the way to the very top."

"The WWE Championship. That could take fuckin' _years_."

Regal nodded. "I reckon it will."

"But you'd really do that? Wait." Ambrose sounded like he wasn't quite sure he believed it.

"I would, yes," Regal said. He would. "For a while."

"How long?"

"Say five years."

"Five years." Ambrose scrubbed a hand over his face. "That's a long fuckin' time to make me wait for a match, man." He lowered his hand. "Why do you even care if I'm at the top?"

"You have too much talent to be anywhere else," Regal said. "And frankly, everyone else is bloody boring. I want to see a proper villain at the top – not all these bland white hats. I want to see you make life just as miserable for John Cena as you have for Seth Rollins." He paused. "In all honesty, I want to help you get there."

"Why?"

"Why should you have all the fun?" Regal said. "It's been a long time since I've been able to _be_ a proper villain. I've missed it. That," he added, "and you have a bad habit of getting bogged down in the smaller picture. I can at least help you stay on track."

Ambrose squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand through his hair. It was still sweat-damp enough that it stood up a bit wildly when he pulled his hand away. "Wait a minute," he said. "Just – wait. Something ain't right here. You push me, you ignore me, you hit me, you say you don't want to fight me, you dangle this match in front of me, and now you wanna help? What the fuck kind of game are you playing here?"

"The only kind worth playing," Regal said. "The kind where I can't lose."

"The kind where I'm gonna get screwed somehow," Ambrose muttered.

Regal smiled at that. "Only if you want to." Ambrose blinked at him, forehead creasing. "Which is to say there are hooks here. I'm sincerely interested in seeing something worthwhile come out of this unholy mess."

It was the truth: the prospect of Ambrose turning his blazing, chaotic focus onto a worthwhile accomplishment like climbing to the top of the WWE, he found, was as exciting now as it had been last year.

He couldn't deny he himself was looking forward to a chance to do some damage of his own, in his own less obvious way.

Ambrose pushed away from the wall then and slipped past Regal. "I'll take you up on the match," he said as he went by, "but I wanna think about the rest. Pretty sure I don't need your help."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you do," Regal said. "Considering how easily you're sidetracked."

Once he reached the door, Ambrose paused and looked around. "I'll think about it."

"Do that," Regal said. "Good night."

"Yeah."

Ambrose disappeared inside.

Regal stood outside in the quiet alley and stared thoughtfully into the dark.

All of a sudden, his world seemed much more interesting.

xXx

A/N: Next time: Mr. Regal takes a break while we find out where Seth was, what he knows, and what it means. Another perspective on a situation is never a bad thing.

Also, the match in this was based on (but very different from) the submissions match Ambrose had at FCW against James Bronson. This was the night that Ambrose cut that epic promo about Regal breaking his heart after Regal walked out on him. The match and the promo are on YouTube.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and to everyone who's read so far. Stepping away from Mr. Regal and out of chronological order for a bit to follow Seth Rollins. This is very long, but it's a part of this story I've been dying to tell. Enjoy.

_**Now:  
**__**New Orleans, April 2014**_

It's about two hours to showtime, and, as he walks through the cavernous concrete hallways backstage, Seth Rollins is nowhere near as excited about tonight as he had been just an hour ago.

Oh, he's _excited_, can feel it crawling through him, can't wait to get out there and take Jack Swagger and Antonio fucking Cesaro _out_, but right now he just wants to find his teammates.

Here he'd thought this year's _Wrestlemania_ would just be a chance for himself and Roman to make a big fucking statement. Last year had been all about telling everyone, _We're here, motherfuckers!_ This year, it's supposed to be about he and Roman walking in as champions and walking out as champions: _You can't touch us, motherfuckers._

They hadn't been beaten once as a team since they won the belts almost a year ago.

This is the night they're supposed to cement their legacy as one of the greatest tag teams in history.

But, of course, it's not that fucking simple.

Nothing is, these days.

Seth rounds a corner, and has to jerk to an abrupt stop to avoid running face-first into William Regal.

Speaking of unnecessary fucking complications...

Regal, forever and always wearing that black fucking suit, pauses long enough to give Seth a smile that makes the skin want to crawl right the fuck off his bones. "Rollins," he says, nodding, before he walks away again.

"_Fuck_," Seth mutters, and turns to double-time it back toward where he'd left Dean and Roman.

He finds them right where he'd left them, near one of the field-level entrances. They'd been watching the ring crew get set up, but Seth can hear the PA system blaring out there now and there's a much steadier stream of people going in and out of that entrance, so Dean and Roman have moved off to a less busy area of the hall.

Roman's leaning against a wall right next to the equipment crate Dean's sitting on. Dean's facing Seth's way, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, staring down at the floor. Roman, standing close enough that his foot is touching Dean's, has his phone out and looks to be messing around on it.

"Guys," Seth says, heading over. He stops near the wall by Roman, but stays facing Dean.

"Hey, what's up?" Roman says, straightening and turning to face him. He taps his phone a couple times, and then sticks it in his pocket. "Where the hell'd you disappear to?"

Seth shakes his head. "Just around, man," he says. "I had to clear my head."

"_That_ shouldn't have been hard," Dean mutters up at hm.

"Very funny, asshole." Seth clears his throat. "Hey, so I saw fuckin' Thwagger and Cesaro over talking to Wade Barrett just a little bit ago. They didn't see me. But, uh, they looked pretty fuckin' chummy, so I'm guessing that means they _are_ working for Regal."

Dean and Roman exchange frowning looks. "Which means tonight's gonna be fun," Roman mutters. "Just what we need."

Seth nods. "I know. The other thing is, I just about ran over fuckin' Regal on my way down here. Looked like he was coming from here."

"He was," Roman says. He folds his arms over his chest. "He came down to wish Dean good luck in the ladder match."

"To let me know he's got something planned, actually," Dean says. "He can't resist rubbing that shit in my face. I don't know what the fuck he's up to, but I'm sure he's gonna try fuck with all of us tonight. Son of a bitch." He kicks the crate with his heel. "I'm gonna come down to the ring with you for your match."

Seth glances at Roman, who shrugs and says, "Wouldn't hurt to have another set of eyes down there, and maybe they'll think twice about it if they see us all together."

As much as he wants to protest – and God, does he, because this match is supposed to be about him and Roman – Seth can't really see a good reason to. It doesn't make sense to leave Dean behind, especially when it's pretty much a given they'll need him. "_Shit_," he mutters. "Fucking Regal. All right. Yeah, you better come down with us."

"Hey, but what about the ladder match?" Roman asks. "You know if he's got Swagger and Cesaro working for him he'll use them to get Barrett that briefcase. Won't be a thing we can do."

Dean stands then and says, "Actually, I've been thinking about that, and I think I got a couple ideas, but I wanna go take a walk here for a minute and kick 'em around." He pauses, though, and eyes Seth and Roman thoughtfully. "You guys ready for this?"

Seth nods. "We're always ready. What about you? Where's your head at? Where's it _been_? I mean, let's face it, you've been so up and down since we switched sides..."

"Oh, come on, man," Roman protests. "It hasn't been _that_ bad."

"You don't have to sugarcoat it, Rome," Dean says, waving him off. "Not like I've been setting the world on fire." He'd lost his title last year and hadn't gotten anywhere near another one since. "But fuck it. All I care about here is helping you guys and winnng the ladder match."

Seth nods and reaches over to clap him on the shoulder. "That's good enough. And, hey, you win that briefcase, what's happened so far this year won't even matter."

"Exactly," Roman says. "You got this, man. You know you do."

Dean glances over at the two of them and huffs a little laugh. "Thanks for the pep talk, guy. Really. I'll be back in a bit." He reaches over and squeezes Roman's shoulder, then turns to slouch away.

Seth watches Roman frown after him, and frowns himself. "You guys all right?" he asks.

Roman's face is full of trouble. "I don't know," he answers. "You know how it goes. Hot and cold. I think we're okay, but some days..."

"He hasn't fucked around on you again, has he?" Seth asks a bit thoughtlessly.

And regrets it immediately when Roman snaps, "Man, mind your business."

"Shit, sorry." Seth holds up a hand. "I'm sorry. That was an asshole thing to say."

"It was," Roman says. "And no, he's not. Unless you know something."

"I don't, no. I don't even know why I said it. Just – he was kind of like that last time. Hot and cold."

"It ain't that," Roman says. "Trust me. It's all this other shit. He needs a damn win tonight, or we all just need to take Regal out."

"I'd almost rather take Regal out." Seth wanders over to the crate Dean had been occupying and sits down. "We need to power bomb his ass if we get a chance tonight. Or you need to spear his spine in half."

"Or both," Roman says. "Get him gone, either way. Get Dean out of this slump, man."

Seth leans back on the crate, resting his weight on his hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's getting to be like Tampa all over again. But, yeah, we take him down, hopefully things'll get better."

"Yeah," Roman says. "So where'd you disappear to, anyway? Booty call, or what?"

Relieved at the change of topic, Seth grins. "Never before a match. You know that. I don't wanna lose my edge. But, holy fuck, me and her are gonna tear it up after the show. She was ready to go right there. So, you know, I took care of things for her."

Roman chuckles, a low deep rumble, and says, "Too much information, man."

Seth snorts. "Fuck you, Reigns. How many times have I had to stand there and watch you and Ambrose all over each other? You guys would do the fuckin' dirty in the car if I let you."

"Yep," Roman says without a hint of remorse. He gives Seth a long, slow look. "And you know, Dean _has_ been trying to talk me into a threesome, so it could even be an interactive experience for you. Hell, you could even bring Kaitlyn. I doubt she'd mind. I wouldn't. Dean wouldn't either."

Seth just stares at him, open-mouthed.

"Your face, man," Roman said. His unexpectedly bright laughter rolls and echoes down the hall, a moment of good cheer in an ocean of chaos.

**_Then:  
__Boston, November 2013_**

Three hours before Survivor Series, Seth Rollins stood in a room thinking that he now knew what it was like to be a damn sardine.

He stood socked shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean and Roman in a tight, windowless cinder-block-and-concrete office, the three of them pushed back against one wall with Triple H, Stephanie McMahon, and Randy Orton across from them. Hunter, who with his buzzed-down hair and dressed as he was in jeans and a sleeveless black tee shirt, looked more like an aging biker than a corporate COO, sat perched on the edge of a small desk. Stephanie, who was dressed in a black business suit and heels, stood against the wall behind Hunter, while Orton, also in jeans and a tee shirt, was off in the corner to Hunter's right staring sullenly at the ground.

Harsh fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, grating on Seth's nerves, and distracting him from what was going on around him. That and the damn tag on his own tee shirt was digging into the back of his neck like the teeth of some biting little bug.

Gritting his teeth, he made himself tune back in. He and his Shield teammates, along with Hunter and Randy were going to be in a Survivor Series match against Daniel Bryan, RVD, The Miz, Dolph Ziggler, and The Big Show. The catch was, if Daniel Bryan's team won, then Daniel got a shot at the WWE title immediately afterward.

It was sort of a stupid stipulation, as far as Seth was concerned, just another chance to torment Bryan, but what Hunter wanted, Hunter got.

"...Bryan," Hunter was saying. "I'd prefer it if _we_ win the Survivor Series match, but I'm not going to worry if he _does_. Here's the deal: this one is on you three. Randy and I are going to stay out of it as much as we can. I want you guys to go hard and take as many of them down as you can. You get eliminated, go wait by the curtain. Once the match is over, whether we win or lose, get your asses back down to the ring, grab a chair or a kendo stick or whatever else you can, and take that bearded little troll and anyone who tries to help him out. Once he's down, I'll have the referee start the title match. Randy wins, Bryan is done once and for all."

"Just don't fuck this up again," Orton put in from his corner.

Seth glared over at him, and before he could stop himself, said, "Or what, Randy? You'll leave us to get jumped by the whole fucking roster again?"

"Seth, shut up," Dean growled from his left as Roman muttered, "Now's not the time, man," from his right.

Hunter held up a hand. "No, it's all right," he said. "If you've got something to say, Rollins, spit it now. Let's get this dealt with."

Without looking at either Dean or Roman, Seth shifted and said, "I just don't appreciate Orton here implying we ain't doing our fuckin' jobs. We're working two, three matches a night – and winning – while running security against a roster that doesn't mind kicking our asses if they can't kick his. Nobody has touched you guys. But us? For three straight weeks, we've had eight, ten, twelve guys on us at a time. We are straight beat _up_, but you're not. So don't stand there and act like we're the ones fucking things up. It's not us."

"No, it isn't," Hunter said. He glanced over at Randy. "It wasn't their fault. Bryan's got everybody thinking they're invincible. You watch, though. I start firing people tonight, that'll stop real quick."

"It better," Orton muttered. "I want to finish him off for good."

"You will," Stephanie said. Her heels made dry, brisk clicks over the concrete floor as she walked around to stand next to her husband. "Once that's done, we'll deal with the rest of the roster." She swept a critical gaze over Seth, Roman, and Dean. "We have been pushing you three pretty hard these past few weeks, but I have to say I'm impressed. You've done your job and you haven't complained. That's more than I can say for almost the entire roster."

"Got that right," Hunter put in.

"We want to keep you guys on your payroll through at least _Wrestlemania_," Stephanie said. "You'll be receiving a substantial bonus for helping us take Daniel Bryan out tonight, and for going above and beyond to keep us all shielded, so to speak." She smiled. "It'll be a combination of perks like first-class airfare and better hotel accommodations, and a cash bonus equal to half your yearly pay. That's how important tonight is to us."

Seth felt his jaw drop as he took all that in. When he looked around at Dean and Roman, he saw keen interest on Dean's face and a frown on Roman's.

That was a _lot_ of money.

There was that 'but' again, though.

That was a lot of money, _but_ what they were going to have to do for it...

Something uneasy shifted in Seth's stomach, but he tried to keep it off his face as he turned back to Stephanie and Hunter.

"There's one other thing," Hunter went on then, smiling. "A special gift just from me. I was gonna surprise you tomorrow, but you all look like you need a pick-me-up. Assuming things go the way we want them to tonight, we're gonna turn _RAW_ over to you three tomorrow. That means you make whatever matches you want with whatever stipulations you can come up with. And anybody who doesn't do what you tell them will be fired on the spot, no questions asked. I think that's only fair. Don't you?"

"Yeah," Dean said. For the first time in weeks, he smiled. It was not a nice smile: it looked more like a shark's after it smelled blood in the water, too many teeth. "Sounds like fun, actually."

Seth sneaked another look at Roman, who continued to frown down at the floor.

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that, and I expect you to go nuts," Hunter said. "The crazier the better. Which is right up your alley, I'd say."

Dean, grin widening even further, said, "I'd say so."

"Just remember," Hunter said, "I want Daniel broken. I want this ended tonight. I want everybody on the roster to remember this was the day their hero couldn't get back up."

"We'll get it done," Dean said.

Seth and Roman stood in stony silence next to him.

Hunter said, "I know you won't let me down. Go get suited up. We'll see you out there later."

Roman, who was closest to the door, turned and led the way out, Seth on his heels, and Dean last.

Once out the hallway, Seth stepped away from his teammates and stretched his shoulders and finally got that fucking tag off the back of his neck. Both Dean and Roman stopped to look at him, Dean from near the doorway with raised eyebrows and Roman over on the other side of the hall, still frowning.

They didn't look at each other, though, and there was a lot of space between them.

Almost a month, and they still weren't really talking.

It was getting a little ridiculous at this point, but Seth had sworn to himself he was going to stay out of it, and by God, he was going to stay out of it.

Because _that_ tension on top of this new tension – this bullshit about finally ending Daniel Bryan's career, something they hadn't been able to do in almost four months of trying to get it done – had Seth ready to punch a hole in somebody's face.

In fact, he started to say something about the match tonight when he saw Kaitlyn walking down the other end of the hallway: a powerhouse of a woman with black-highlighted blonde hair, a wonderfully curved figure, and eyes that just cut right through him. She was fiery and sharp and feisty, and he'd been trying to get her to come have a drink with him for almost two months.

"I'll meet you guys in the locker room," he said to Roman and Dean without taking his eyes off Kaitlyn. "I'm gonna go-"

"Humiliate yourself again?" Dean suggested dryly. "Good luck."

"Fuck you, Ambrose," Seth said, walking quickly toward the other end of the hall. "Hey, Kaitlyn!" he called down. "Hey, wait up."

She slowed just enough to toss him the kind of look she might give the bottom of her shoe after she stepped in something. "What do _you_ want?"

Seth jogged up to her. "Just to talk," he said.

"I have nothing to say to you," she said. "Has the bleach fried your brain?"

"Hey, come on," he said. "Don't be like that. Seriously, I'm not a bad guy. Have dinner with me. Or even just a drink. Let me prove it to you."

Kaitlyn pulled to a sudden stop and swung around to look at him. She was still wearing her street clothes – jeans, a blue shirt, and tennis shoes – and so stood nearly a full head shorter than him. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, which oddly seemed to make her glare look even more ferocious – enough to push him back a step.

"I don't know how many times and how many ways I can tell you no," she said. "But _no_. What you and your two boyfriends are doing to this company is disgusting. You three think you're the top dogs around here, but you're just Triple H's bitches. You're bigger bitches than any of the divas here. And that's saying something. So no dinner, no drinks, nothing. I don't date bitches. I don't even talk to them."

Seth, feeling a little like he'd been kicked in the stomach, said, lamely, "We're just doing our jobs."

"Yeah, you're doing a great job being a little bitch." She turned to walk away again. "By the way, that's the stupidest dye job I've ever seen. You look like a skunk."

With that, she tossed her head and sauntered off.

"Like yours is any better," he muttered after her, although he did take a second to admire the view from behind her.

_You're bitches, all three of you_.

It wasn't the first time he'd been called that, but this time it bothered him, it really did, enough that it followed him like a black fucking cloud the entire way up to the locker room.

He slowed as he approached because he could hear Dean talking.

The three of them shared a private locker room thanks to the McMahon-Helmsleys, which meant either Dean really had snapped and was talking to himself or he and Roman were finally talking again.

"...you gonna hold this against me, Rome?" Dean was asking, and Seth stepped to one side, out of sight, to listen. "I know I fucked up _the one time_, but come on. It's been a month. I apologized every way I know how, but if you need to hear it again, I'm sorry. I said it wouldn't happen again and it hasn't – not even close. You asked for time and space, and I've given you plenty of both. But I'm gettin' a little fuckin' tired of this. Cuz I'm still fuckin' crazy about you, and I just want things back how they were. But if that's not what you want, then you just need to say we're done so we can move the fuck on."

He sounded as frustrated and tired and hurt as Seth had ever heard him.

For the first time since this whole stupid thing happened, Seth actually felt sorry for him. Dean had fucked up when he cheated with some asshole he met at a bar, sure, and Roman was right to be pissed, but Dean had a point: it had been a month, and Roman really needed to make up his damn mind.

It was a long time before Seth heard what sounded like a bag being unzipped, followed by Roman's quiet, "You're an asshole, Ambrose, you know that? You really are."

"Yep," Dean said. "So?"

"So let's grab a beer after the show," Roman said. "I don't really want to talk, but I don't really want to be done, either, so I guess we'll just have to figure something out."

Dean nodded. "All right," he said. "Whatever you want."

"Tonight, then," Roman said. He raised his voice. "We're done, Seth. Stop eavesdropping and get your ass in here."

"Fucking _finally_," Seth muttered as he made his way into the room. Neither Dean nor Roman, he saw, had even begun to change clothes yet; they were both standing in front of their respective lockers, Dean with his thumbs hooked him his belt loops and Roman with his hands in his pockets, watching him.

He walked straight over to his own locker, which was really nothing more than a big wooden cubbyhole with a shelf, and reached under the wood bench for his bag. "It's about fuckin' time. Work this shit out, would you? I've been feeling like a kid watching his parents fight around you guys lately."

"Parents," Roman snorted. "We're not that much older than you."

"Speak for yourself, old man," Dean said, turning away to grab his own bag out of his locker.

"You're both older than me," Seth pointed out, "so my point still stands." He tossed his bag on the bench and unzipped it.

Roman, sounding amused, said, "I take it you struck out again."

Blinking, Seth glanced over. "What?"

"With Kaitlyn."

"Oh," Seth said. "Yeah. This time. One of these days, though..."

He waited for a smart-ass reply out of one or both of his teammates, but nothing came. He unzipped his bag and started hauling out his ring gear, starting with his boots, which he checked over carefully for ripped seams and signs of wear.

After a few quiet moments, he sighed, set his boot down, and looked over at Roman and Dean, who were both as engrossed in checking over their gear as he'd been. "So we gonna talk about this?" he finally asked. "What we're supposed to do tonight?"

Roman, who'd been turning over his vest to check for rips, lowered it and turned a careful look on him. "As in what we're going to do during the match? Our strategy?"

Seth tossed his boot onto the floor and turned to sit down on the bench. "I can't be the only one thinking this feels weird, can I?"

Frowning in something like confusion, Dean shook his head. "It's nothing we haven't done a hundred times. Except, hey, there's some special fun perks in it for us. RAW tomorrow is gonna be _sick_."

Roman, meanwhile, was still looking hard at Seth, gray eyes like a couple of spear tips. "Weird like it seems dirty? Like we're selling our souls?"

Seth snapped his fingers and pointed at him. "Yeah," he said. "That's it exactly. When we first got here, we were all about doing what was right. Justice. You guys remember that? How the hell did we get so far away from that? We fuckin' sold out."

"We did not," Dean said. "We gave lip service to justice and principles and honor, but you know damn well it was just an excuse for us to walk in and do whatever the fuck we wanted. And what we wanted was to take over. I never heard you complaining."

"None of us did," Roman muttered. "We were doing what we wanted." He glanced at Seth. "Dean's got a point. We might have _said_ we stood for justice, but – come on. We threw that out the window after two damn months. But I still agree with you, man. This doesn't feel right."

"_Thank_ you," Seth said.

Dean frowned at them both. "What the hell are you talking about? 'Doesn't feel right'? This is the same shit we've been doing since we got here. Except we're getting paid a hell of a lot more money to do it."

"So you're okay with ending Bryan's career," Seth said.

"That little motherfucker has been a thorn in our side from day fuckin' one," Dean said. "The boss wants to pay me to make him gone, I'm gonna do it with a fuckin' _smile_." He shook his head. "Why do you care? All the trouble he's caused you, what the hell does it matter?"

"Because it's not right," Roman said. He folded his arms over his chest and moved to stand a bit closer to Seth. "I'm not saying I like the guy, but he gets up every time we put him down. He's a fighter. I respect that. And I'm get real tired of trying to hold him down. I'm tired of being the bad guy."

_You're bitches, all three of you._

"So am I," Seth said. "And I'll tell you something else: I owned NXT and FCW without ever having to compromise like this. I was Seth fuckin' Rollins. I did my own thing, my own way. I wasn't some fuckin' corporate bitch. And to be honest, I'm getting real fuckin sick of getting my ass kicked all the time."

Dean gave him a very cold look. "That's sweet and uplifting and all, but you two need to step back a second and look around. We have no friends here. We work for the McMahon-Helmsleys. So, you two decide to bite the hand that's feeding us, do you think _anybody_ is gonna stand up for you? No. They're gonna fuckin' laugh while Hunter makes examples of you. We're on our own little island, boys. Think about what it's going to cost you if you do something stupid tonight. You're gonna be _lucky_ if you get fired."

"'I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees,'" Seth said. "I heard that somewhere one time. Never really knew what it meant. Until now. I'd rather go out fighting than be on my knees sucking Hunter's dick all the time. And I'm sorry, Dean, but you of all people can't seriously be happy with any of this."

"If it gets me closer to what I want, then I'll do what I have to," Dean said. "Maybe I don't like it, but it's what's I've always done. And, look, I'm not gonna tell you guys what to do here, but I'm gonna ask you to really think about it. Because the thing is you're going to have to actually take Orton and Triple H _out_. And maybe you will. Tonight. But what about tomorrow? What about Friday? What about the following Monday? You're not gonna be able to run forever. If that's the price you're willing to pay, fine. Otherwise, maybe you could start looking for some other way."

Roman shook his head. "Some other way won't do Bryan any good."

"Well, you gotta do what you gotta do, I guess, but you're gonna martyr yourselves for a guy who hates your guts. Maybe it's the right thing to do, but what are you really gonna get out of it?" Dean spun away from his locker. "I gotta get outta here for a bit. You guys decide what you wanna do. I won't tell, but I don't wanna know."

Before either Roman or Seth could say a word, Dean yanked his ballcap back on and marched out.

Roman, his mouth thin and trouble all over his face, said, "What are we gonna do, man?"

Seth scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "I don't fuckin' know."

xXx

Time, that miserable bitch, didn't stop long enough for Seth and Roman to make any kind of decision.

He just didn't know what to do.

He stood at the entrance to the stadium with Dean and Roman, and he didn't know.

He walked down the steps, and he didn't know.

He climbed up to the ring apron, and he didn't know.

He watched Dean, ice cold and scary silent, eliminate Dolph Ziggler and The Miz in ten minutes flat, and he didn't know.

He watched RVD eliminate Dean, and he didn't know.

He went into the ring and knocked off RVD himself, and he didn't know.

He was eliminated by the Big Show, and as he walked up the ramp, he still didn't know.

He watched from a monitor in the back as Roman speared the Big Show and eliminated him, leaving Daniel Bryan all alone against three guys. Not exactly unfamiliar territory, and as the crowd voiced its approval with a thundering Yes! Chant, Daniel managed to get Roman down into the No Lock almost immediately.

Roman didn't put up any kind of fight.

Time kept marching right on.

Next thing Seth knew, Bryan knocked Hunter the fuck _out_ with his running knee.

The crowd in the arena went absolutely ballistic.

But that was nothing compared to the roar that filled the place when Bryan got Randy to tap out.

Because there was Bryan, standing over Randy Orton, looking crazy as fuck with his wild-ass beard and wild-ass hair, hands raised, clearly not giving a _fuck_ anymore, and ready to take on the fucking world.

The sight and sound gave Seth fucking goosebumps.

Suddenly the roars turned to boos, though, as Hunter staggered to his feet and blindsided Bryan.

"That's our cue," Seth heard Dean say behind him. "Let's get out there. Get this shit over with."

Seth glanced at Roman, and suddenly he knew.

"We're right behind you," Roman said, and Seth got the feeling he knew it, too, because Roman held Seth's gaze and reached out and squeezed Seth's shoulder for a few seconds.

It was fucking nuts, but as he raced down to ringside and the sea of boos enveloped him, Seth had never felt so fucking free in his life.

He hit the ring and launched straight at Triple H, thinking, well, fuck it.

_Fuck this_.

And Roman, who had never let Seth down, speared the ever-loving _shit_ out of Randy Orton, sending Randy ass-first into the corner.

All around them, the crowd started screaming, and Seth, as he kicked Triple H's knee out from under him and started stomping the shit out of him, thought crazily, _I was born for this shit_. His adrenaline shot high as the crowed whipped into a frenzy.

Until, that was, rough hands grabbed his hair and a flurry of fists started to crash-land like runaway stars on his head and back and shoulders. He hit the mat hard enough that the air went out of him and tried to cover up best he could as he was kicked and stomped every bit as hard as he himself had just been kicking and stomping Hunter.

It stopped abruptly, but before he could gather his wits enough to figure out what the fuck just happened, he was hauled up bodily and _shoved_ right into the path of a fucking freight train.

He landed in a stunned, breathless heap with Roman right on top of him, and Roman saying, "I couldn't stop, man, I couldn't stop, sorry. Dean threw you right into me. I'm sorry. I couldn't stop. You all right?"

Seth nodded and, clutching his ribs, managed to twist into something like a seated position against the ropes. Roman crouched beside him.

He saw Hunter standing in the center of the ring with a mic, Dean standing near him with a chair in hand, and Randy holding a half-conscious Daniel Bryan up by his hair.

Once again, things started moving before he had time to figure out what the fuck was happening: hands grabbed him from under the bottom rope and dragged him bodily from the ring. He was still too hurt to offer much in the way of resistance – not that he really could have with Antionio Cesaro and Jack Swagger both holding him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Big E Langston and Ryback both doing the same to Roman. Roman fought like a wildcat, but Ryback leveled him with one of those ugly fucking meathooks.

Up in the ring, Hunter's face was _purple_. He walked over to stand in front of Seth and Roman. "Is that how it's gonna be?" Hunter asked. "Is that how you want this? Get 'em up here." He glared at Ryback and the others still holding Seth and Roman. "Get them in this ring right _now_."

Cesaro and Swagger, each holding one of Seth's arms, dragged him back into the ring, and Seth found himself wondering why the hell they hadn't just left him and Roman in there in the first place.

They yanked him forward as Big E and Ryback did the same to Roman. Roman was unsteady on his feet, but man, if looks could kill Hunter would be _dead_.

"I hired you boys because it was best for business!" Hunter snarled into the mic, the words coming out between pants. He was sweating, his whole body flushed with his rage. "You turned your back on me, you bit the hand that fed you, and you just made it as personal as it gets. Well, guess what, I can do that, too! Ambrose!"

Dean had been standing a ways away from all this, chair still in his hand, face knotted with anger and his eyes hard. As the summons, he walked over to Hunter's side. With his shoulders hunched, he looked oddly small standing there.

Hunter got right in his face. "Did you know about this?"

Dean, wide-eyed, shook his head no.

"This is wrong, Hunter!" Seth yelled. "It's wrong and you know it!"

"Shut him up!" Hunter snapped, and Cesaro kicked Seth's knee hard enough to make it buckle. Seth staggered, but held his ground as Hunter got back in Dean's face. "Are you with me or them?"

Blinking, gaze cutting over to Seth and Roman, Dean hesitated a bit before finally saying, "You."

But, shit, there was something _there_, Seth thought, some war going on in Dean's eyes.

Roman must have seen it, too, because he said, "You know this is wrong, Dean. Don't do it. Think about what you're gonna lose, man."

"Yeah, Ambrose," Hunter said, "think about what you're gonna lose. Like the extra little incentive you have to win the title one day?" Dean's head snapped up. "Oh, I know all about that. So listen up: you ever cross me, it'll never happen. Understand?"

Jaw clenched, Dean nodded.

"Good boy," Hunter said. He pointed over at Seth and Roman. "I want you to take that chair, go over there, and finish them off. And then we'll finish Daniel off. All right?"

Dean closed his eyes and took a breath, then walked over to stand in front of Seth.

"This is your brother, man," Roman said. He lunged forward, but Big E and Ryback held him in place. "You do this and you're gonna lose everything. Don't do it."

"Do it, Ambrose," Hunter said from just behind Dean. "Hurry up."

Dean's face twisted, crumpled, eyes shut tight as he raised the chair overhead.

"You look him in the eye!" Roman roared. "You do this, don't be a pussy. Look him in the eye."

"Shut _up_, Roman," Dean snapped back, but he opened his eyes and, for a long moment, looked not at Seth, but at Roman, who stared right back.

Swallowing, his face once twisting, Dean tensed to deliver the chair strike.

And then-

Spun abruptly and smashed the chair down on top of Hunter's head.

Hunter dropped like a stone.

The arena absolutely erupted, people screaming and cheering and stomping so loud Seth could feel it.

Dean, meanwhile, pivoted and smashed the chair across Cesaro's head. Seth, his arm free, pivoted and kicked Swagger in the nuts. Swagger fell.

Seth leapt on Big E's broad back and started pummeling him while Dean ran over to brain Ryback with the chair. Seth jumped off Big E just in time to avoid being crushed when Roman speared Big E practically in half.

The ring shook with the force of the impact.

And, oh God, the place was going _nuts_.

Seth suddenly realized _he_ was screaming, but he couldn't fucking hear himself over the noise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement and turned to see Dean climb down out of the ring. He'd discarded the chair somewhere.

"Reigns, Rollins, clear the ring!" he heard somebody – either a ref or maybe even Bryan himself – yell behind him. "We still got the championship match to finish!"

Seth scrambled to follow Dean out, and Roman was right behind. When Seth turned to look back at the ring, he saw the ref signal for the bell to start the match. Daniel, in a sea of bodies, had Randy Orton down in the No! Lock again.

The whole locker room, too, had come to the top of the ramp to watch.

"Come on, Seth," he heard Roman say. Roman grabbed Seth's arm. "Let's get out of here. We did our part. It's his turn."

Roman led the way to the barricade. Dean was already there, staring with a blank, stunned sort of look on his face.

Roman, his expression so soft and gooey that it made Seth want to puke, let go of Seth. He walkec straight up to Dean and pulled him in for a hard hug. Dean turned to mutter something into Roman's ear that made Roman all but crush him.

Just about then, the fucking arena exploded one more time as the bell rang. It was like a bomb fucking went off.

Daniel Bryan had become the WWE champion for the second time this year.

The people in the crowd near them started slapping them on the back and grabbing them, and Seth tried to fend them off the best he could, but it was a little overwhelming. He heard a dry, "Let's get the fuck outta here before they start tearing our clothes off," in his ear, and felt himself being hauled away.

He just nodded and let be pulled along.

Craziest shit he'd ever felt, this crowd. The whole arena felt like it was going to shake down around him. Being in the middle of it was like being thrown into a bucket of pure lightning, and Seth, as he followed his teammates down the aisle toward the back, knew deep down he was going to spend the rest of his career chasing this high.

One day, he vowed silently, it would be him up there.

The last thing he saw before he followed Dean and Roman behind the curtain was the entire roster on its way down to the ring to celebrate as confetti began to fall.

Backstage, it was like a ghost town, and that was just fine as far as he was concerned.

The only two people in the world he wanted to be around right now were waiting for him in the hall.

They were both just as sweat-soaked and out of breath as he himself was. Roman had one arm around Dean's shoulders and a big smile on his face. Dean was more subdued, pulled in on himself, arms folded over his chest, glowering at the floor.

Which was nothing new, and Seth decided he didn't give a shit.

He stepped forward and slung a companionable arm around Roman's shoulder so the big man was in the middle. "Well," he said lightly, "congratulations boys. We are well and truly fucked. But god damn, it feels amazing."

Roman chuckled deep in his chest. "You're nuts, Rollins," he said. "Absolutely out your mind. You all right?"

"I can't feel anything right now," Seth admitted, "but I'm sure I'm gonna be dead tomorrow. Holy fuck, man, that shit is like getting hit by a freight train."

"Sorry about that," Dean said without looking up. "It was a reflex."

"You're an asshole, and I swear to God I'm going to drop kick your ass out of the ring one of these days," Seth muttered. He scrubbed a gloved hand over his mouth. "Oh, God. That was the craziest shit I've seen in my _life. _We are _so_ fucked. I don't even know how we're gonna explain all this tomorrow. Fuck."

"Not that Hunter's gonna let us anywhere near an open mic," Dean muttered. "Probably not even gonna have jobs."

"Well, considering you almost killed him," Seth said, "I doubt he'll even be _at_ RAW tomorrow. But we should still get going before Stephanie has a chance to do get her shit together and come after us. Honestly, she's the one I'm worried about right now."

"She's the one I was _always_ worried about," Roman said. "Tough little woman. But, yeah, tomorrow's gonna be interesting. We're gonna be lucky if fired is all that happens to us." He smiled, though, leaned over to kiss Dean's temple, and squeezed Seth's shoulder. "It was worth it, though. That was great."

"It felt good," Dean admitted, scrubbing a hand over his cheek. "But I'm kinda bummed we won't get to run _RAW_ tomorrow."

"That would have been fun," Seth said. He stripped his gloves off and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. "But, hey, you did the right thing. That was justice. He had it coming."

"We really are fucked, you know," Dean said. "Me especially. God _dammit_, you two. _Fuck_. What the fuck was I thinking?"

"That you're not a puppet, my dear boy," a voice said from their left. Almost in unison, the three of them turned to see William Regal leaning casually against a pillar, watching, smiling vaguely. "Congratulations on finally cutting those strings."

"Oh, and a good night gets even better," Dean muttered. He pulled away from Roman and took a step forward. "What the _fuck_, Regal?" he snarled. Seth exchanged a confused look with Roman: Dean sounded like he wanted to tear Regal's head off.

Regal, well-dressed as always in all black, kept right on smiling. "I was indulging a bit of idle curiosity," he said. "You'll have to forgive me. I just wondered what you'd do – if you'd stay with him and take the easy route, or if you'd choose to cut ties and make your own way. I'm impressed."

"You're impressed." Dean's voice was lethally quiet.

"Believe it or not, yes," Regal said. His gaze swept over to Seth and Roman. "With all of you. That was quite a show. Bit more dramatic than I expected, but what lovely theater." Turning back to Dean, he straightened away from the pillar. "I believe you'll find this cost you less than you think. A bit of time, perhaps, but it appears you've gained a fair bit in trade." He glanced over at Roman, then back again. "You've never done anything the easy way, in any case, so why start now?"

"'Cuz the hard way's not always the _best_ way," Dean said.

"I reckon in this case it is," Regal said. "You _think _staying with him would have been the easy way, but I suspect he would have kept you chasing the title for a long time, knowing what it meant to you. This way, you may have some rough roads for a bit, but things will be smoother int he end." He chuckled. "The three of you have come a long way since Florida. I, for one, can't wait to see where you go from here. Oh," he added, "and I wouldn't worry overmuch about Stephanie or Hunter. I have a rather strong suspicion Vince hasn't been terribly thrilled with their leadership of late. We might be seeing a change in management soon. Interesting times, these. Good night, gentlemen."

With that, he turned and made his way back toward the field entrance.

Seth watched Dean scowl after him. The back of Dean's neck was flushed red and his hands were fists at his sides. "What the fuck was that all about?" Seth asked.

After a tense few second, Dean shook his head and moved back to stand at Roman's side. "Who really knows with that guy?" he muttered.

"Does it have anything to do with what Hunter said in the ring?" Roman asked. "I heard something about some incentive you have to win the title...?"

"Hey, yeah, that's right," Seth said. "I heard that, too."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, "It was just something I told Regal back FCW. How I really wanted the title. Guess he told Hunter, so Hunter decided to try screw with my head, I guess. I don't know. Um. Anyway, come on. Let's get showered up and get the fuck out of here. I wanna be gone before the party finds its way back here."

The three of them fell into step together, their mood more subdued, though Roman slipped his arm back around Dean's shoulders. "So why _do_ you want that title so damn much?" he asked. "You already got one."

"Get to the top of the mountain, I guess. I don't know. Seemed like a big deal at the time." Dean scratched the back of his head. "Speaking of, we left 'em in the ring again."

Seth slapped his forehead. "God _dammit_. We should probably go get 'em."

"No," Dean snapped. "I am _not_ gonna wade through that bullshit again. I swear, if one more person tries to grope me..."

Grinning suddenly, Roman reached down and grabbed a handful of Dean's ass. "What, like that?"

Dean shot him a filthy little smirk. "Do that again, Roman baby, and me and you are gonna give Seth here a show that's gonna make any sex he tries to have afterward pale in comparison."

"_No_!" Seth snapped. "Roman, keep your fucking hands to yourself. I mean it. I get enough of you two playing fuckin' grab-ass in the car..." He trailed off, though, and looked back and forth between them. "Wait a second. Am I missing something here? Are you guys...?"

His smirk fading, Dean shot Roman a questioning look. "Well, I don't know, actually," he said. "Are we?"

"I heard what you said out there, man," Roman said. He sounded smug.

Straight-faced, Dean said, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Rome."

"You're full of shit, Ambrose," Roman said. He reached over and hooked an arm around Dean's neck, putting him into a loose sort of headlock. "I heard you loud and clear. You don't get to take that shit back."

Seth undid his vest's buckles, then frowned over at Roman, who was laughing at Dean's admittedly pathetic struggles to get away. "What did he say?"

Dean, bent over at sort of an awkward angle, craned his head up to look at Seth. "I told him he was an asshole and an ugly motherfucker, but that I kinda dig that anyway." He planted both hands into Roman's chest and finally managed to slip out from the hold. "I might be paraphrasing a little, though."

Roman laughed. "His exact words were-"

"Never mind," Dean cut him off, slicking his hair back with his fingers. He almost sounded embarrassed. "He doesn't want to know."

"No, I don't," Seth said. "I really, _really_ don't."

Just then, he heard a husky but feminine voice call out, "Rollins! Hey, Rollins! Wait up!"

"Hey, I'll catch up," he told Dean and Roman, who exchanged eye rolls but headed toward the locker room just up the hall, their arms slipping around each other again.

He he turned and smiled at Kaitlyn. "See?" he said as she stopped in front of him, a look of surprise and something he guessed was maybe like confusion on her face. "I told you I wasn't a bad guy."

She was still in her ring gear, which wasn't all that dissimilar from his own: tight black on black with matching black boots. She looked like a real bad-ass, especially when she planted her hands on her hips and shook her head at him. "I don't get you, Rollins," she said. "I really don't. But, actually, I just thought you should know, everybody's looking for you guys out there. They want you to come up."

"What for, so they can kick our asses again?"

"So they can thank you for finally stepping up."

"_Thank_ us?"

"Yeah. That took a lot of balls. Of course, you should have done it months ago, but you picked a great moment to do it. Everybody's over the moon for Daniel."

Seth nodded. "Yeah, that's why we're making ourselves scarce," he said. "It's his night. He earned it. Let him have it. We're gonna go celebrate our own way. While we can."

"How long were you guys planning this?" she asked.

"We didn't," Seth admitted. "It just happened. You called me a bitch. I was not cool with that. I'm not a bitch."

Kaitlyn smiled, eyes lighting up. "No, you're not," she said. "So are you good guys now, then?"

Seth shook his hair out of his face. "I don't really know yet," he admitted. "I think so, though. I think I'm gonna talk to the boys about _actually _doing the right thing and being for real justice. Assuming we're not fired on the spot tomorrow. Anyway," he said, waving that off, "I think you owe me dinner to make up for calling me a bitch."

"In your dreams, Skunky Brewster," she said, turning. "I just wanted wanted to say you're okay. In spite of the stupid dye job."

"Pot, kettle. I don't know what the hell you're going for with the black, but...damn."

She laughed quietly. "Yes, and insulting a woman's hair is exactly the way to get her to have dinner with you. You've got a lot to learn."

"So teach me," he said. "Come on."

"No," she said, but she smiled. "Night."

"Good night."

Grinning to himself, skin still buzzing like he'd touched a live wire, and content for a change, Seth Rollins turned to go join his teammates in the locker room.

xXx

_**Now:  
**__**New Orleans, April 2014**_

In an empty section of the stadium, under a sign marked Section 301, William Regal stands looking out onto a _Wrestlemania_ set that has at last been completed.

The stadium is still empty yet; they'll open the gates soon and these quiet hallways will fill with the babble of the masses as they file in to witness the spectacle about to play out before them.

He's been up here a few minutes, just waiting on a hunch, when he hears quiet footsteps approach. He smiles to himself, but doesn't turn to see who it is.

He doesn't have to.

Arms, far more heavily muscled than they used to be, slip around his waist. Warmth at his back, then, as a cheek or a chin settles on the back of his shoulder.

"Thought you'd be up with Barrett by now," a dry, quiet voice murmurs.

"You looked like you needed me more," Regal says, running his hands along the smooth, strong forearms caging his middle. "In fact, you looked like you wanted to slit my throat."

"I feel like I'm about to crawl outta my fuckin' skin right now. How'd you even know I'd come up here?"

"I wasn't sure you would," Regal admits quietly, "but I thought if you _were_ to dislodge yourself from your team for a bit, this was the most likely place. You'd want to see it for yourself. How much time do you have?"

"Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. I didn't actually expect to run into you up here. I just needed to get away for a bit."

Regal steps forward and the arms fall away. He turns, glances around to make sure the corridor is still empty, and then smiles. "Then I suggest," he says, "we not waste any more time. Come along."

With that, he turns to lead the way back to an empty room he'd passed on his way up, and Dean Ambrose follows.

xXx

A/N: ...whew. Thanks for slogging through all that. Might be a week or so before I get the next chapter done.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks, as ever, to everyone who's taken time to review this puppy and to everyone who's read it. So much for these chapters getting shorter. Sorry. This one starts slow and picks up toward the middle/end. There's enough plot in it that I can't, in good conscience, call it an interlude, but it's close. Here's where we earn our rating.

_**Then:  
**__**Tampa, early May 2012**_

William Regal was a man with a problem.

When he'd been the focus of Dean Ambrose's obsession, Regal had found it easy to ignore the boy, to spare him no more than a passing thought or two in the course of a day, to go about his business and then go home. From time to time, it became a bit of a bother, particularly when others felt the need to make an issue of it, but that aside, it really hadn't affected him that much.

Although he'd never been hunted quite _that_ intensely before, it was hardly the first time in his life he'd been someone's target.

The trouble began with the idea that had come to him during his conversation with Ambrose: namely, himself the becoming the hand that guided Ambrose to the very top of the WWE, himself breaking away from this uninteresting Florida merely-existence, himself shedding his complacent yes-man exterior and at last becoming the man he's always meant to be.

The man he's always wanted to be – a man who doesn't fear his darkness, but rather embraces it and uses it to propel him to the great heights that he has always known himself capable of reaching.

The man he had never _quite_ managed to be.

He'd never lacked for ambition, only sufficient motivation.

How easy he had found it to become set in his solitary, sedentary way, to smile and accept a job that had offered enough money to meet all his material wants and then some. It was nothing like a challenge, really; in all honesty, it was demeaning to have to sit there and have to talk about how _great_ and _wonderful_ a crop of inexperienced _children_ were, and knowing that a good many of them would go on to have brighter careers than he ever did.

(Which was his own doing, mostly. But it still rankled. Even after he'd gotten himself back together, gotten his life back on track, he'd never even been offered a chance to rise up the ranks. He'd been shoved aside, put down in Florida to evaluate and mentor young talent.)

Motivation:

A young man with all the potential in the world, a violent and nihilistic streak, a decided lack of morals, and ambition to burn. A young man prone to petty obsessions, fits of self-destructive anger, and with precious little grasp on the larger picture.

And himself the hand to channel all that raw talent into a weapon the likes of which the WWE had never seen before – and use that weapon to clear the way for himself to step back into a position of _actual_ power in the company.

It always galled him how the most incompetent people seemed to have the most power.

It awoke something in him, _excited_ him, that right in front of him he had the perfect weapon against it.

The question, and, ultimately, what became his problem, was how exactly to convince _Ambrose_ that this was an avenue worth exploring.

Ambrose, after their conversation the night of the Bronson match, threw himself into his pursuit of the FCW Heavyweight title: putting in long hours in the gym and in the ring, stalking Seth Rollins, and doing his level best to convince Dusty Rhodes to give him a title shot.

Dusty refused on the grounds that Antonio Cesaro, Leo Kruger, and Damien Sandow were all owed title matches first. That, naturally, didn't sit well with Ambrose, who grew every bit as foul-tempered and hard-to-handle as he'd been when he'd been stalking Regal, but Dusty held firm, threatening to fire Ambrose if he so much as _thought_ about attacking Rollins, Cesaro, or anybody else involved in the title chase, but following that up with an assurance that Ambrose _would_ get another title match as soon as Cesaro, Kruger, and Sandow all had their chances.

This seemed to placate Ambrose, who went back to dividing his time between the gym, the ring, and scouting all his potential opponents.

He didn't ignore Regal, exactly, but he seemed to have put Regal on his mental back burner.

It should have been a good thing; at the time of the conversation, it had been exactly the thing Regal had wanted, to shift Ambrose's focus onto more productive ends.

But that bloody idea caught hold of Regal like a fever, and, in a neat bit of role reversal, he found himself the hunter rather than the hunted.

He didn't _stalk_ Ambrose, precisely, but he always knew when Ambrose was at the facility and usually knew where the boy was throughout the day.

It wasn't that he was _trying_, exactly; he'd found found himself more restless lately, and took to making frequent walks around the facility when he had little better to do. Those walks usually took him past the gym and the training rooms, and since those happened to be where Ambrose _was_, well, he couldn't help but know, now could he?

The _problem_ was, Ambrose wasn't interested in talking.

The handful of times Regal managed to corner him, Ambrose brushed him off with a brusque, "I told you I'd think about it. I'll think about it."

The third time that happened, Regal, pushing down a rising tide of frustrated annoyance, found himself wondering if this was how Ambrose had felt earlier this year.

If so, it was a wonder the boy managed not to kill anyone.

In the meantime, Ambrose appeared to have found himself an admirer.

Whenever Regal saw Ambrose training in the ring, it was always with the same partner: Roman Leakee – the future Roman Reigns. Leakee had been injured back in early January, and now, in late March, was back to resume his training.

He was a big man, Leakee, taller than Ambrose and much more heavily muscled with the kind of handsome face and unconscious charisma that had marked him as a 'star' from the moment he'd come into FCW. As the son, nephew, and brother of former wrestlers, he certainly had the pedigree; he simply lacked the skills, having chosen to pursue a football career while men like Seth Rollins and Dean Ambrose were honing their wrestling skills on the independent circuit.

Regal found out through a few discreet inquiries that one of the trainers had paired them up, since nobody really wanted to work with Ambrose while Leakee needed as much ring time as he could get. Soon after the two of them paired up in the ring, Regal began to spot them working out together in the gym.

It wasn't _much_ later that Regal noticed a bit of subtle flirting going back and forth between them as they stood talking together in the ring.

It was mostly from Leakee – smiles, little looks, even little touches as Leakee nudged Ambrose, laughing, after something Ambrose said apparently struck him as funny – but Regal was sure Ambrose noticed, because he saw Ambrose give Leakee a long, narrow look once like he was trying to puzzle out just what exactly was going on there.

Regal couldn't explain it himself. Leakee was a relatively quiet and uninteresting young man beyond his look, as far as Regal could tell; he treated people well, worked hard, and seldom caused problems. He was, Regal had found in the few times they'd spoken, an average intellect but decently well-spoken, driven but humble, menacing in appearance but mild-mannered in temperament.

He was very different from Ambrose.

One day, not long afterward, Regal was on one of his daily walkabouts, he passed by the gym and saw the two standing near a stack of weights, Leakee leaning on it with this back mostly to the door, and Ambrose facing him, arms folded.

Ambrose caught Regal's eye, smirked a bit, and leaned in close to say something to Leakee, which made the big man look down and laugh. Ambrose becoming an outright grin reached over and clapped his shoulder. Then, he turned and tossed Regal a positively wicked look, as if to say, _Look what I got_.

Regal, chuckling to himself, shook his head and walked away.

Well, well, well.

That certainly made things interesting, didn't it?

They certainly got that way, anyway, as every time he saw Ambrose and Leakee together after that, Ambrose made it a point to be smiling at Leakee or touching him somehow – always making sure to catch Regal's eye, subtly – if they weren't rolling around in the ring or lifting weights.

Regal, thinking two could play that game, made it a habit, whenever he walked by Ambrose in the hallway, to touch him somehow – just a brush, just something very subtle, something that, to the casual observer, might look like an accident. (Except the once when he deliberately skimmed fingers along Ambrose's back, just above the line of his trunks, when no one else was around. He kept right on walking, however, didn't even look around. After he won his match that evening, Ambrose leaned through the ring ropes and blew a kiss at the commentary table. It was all Regal could do not to laugh.)

On and on it went through April and into early May, move and counter-move: Ambrose doing something mildly outrageous (deliberately bending over in front of the commentary desk), and Regal doing something more subtle in retaliation ("accidentally" brushing Ambrose's ass as he walked by while Ambrose was chatting with Leakee, for example), and neither of them talking about it.

It was amusing, but quite frustrating because it wasn't getting him any closer to convincing Ambrose to work with him.

And that idea just would not go away.

(Nor would his attraction, which only sharpened the more he toyed with Ambrose.)

It was all just one big bloody complicated problem, one he cursed that blue-eyed devil for.

(And himself for not stopping this last bloody year.)

How much longer things could have gone on in that vein, Regal didn't know, but it became a moot point the day Triple H came down from the corporate office to meet with Regal, Dusty and the other senior staff to let them know that FCW was shutting down and would be merging with NXT in mid-June.

"We're going to bring almost everyone over from FCW," Hunter said. He was sitting at the head of the table in the tiny, windowless room that served as the break room and meeting room for the FCW staff. He was wearing a business suit, but, even with his hair back in a ponytail, Regal found himself having trouble separating Hunter the wrestler from Hunter the businessman he now purported to be.

This was his project, though, and he _had_ given Regal the job, so Regal supposed he owed Hunter the benefit of his attention.

"...want to close out FCW with a bang," Hunter was saying, He glanced over at Regal. "Willy, old buddy, old pal, I hear you backed out of your rematch with Ambrose. I was actually hoping we end our run with that. Be a hell of a way to end that story. Any way I can change your mind?"

Regal grit his teeth and shook his head.

Hunter looked around at the half-dozen men in the room and jerked his head toward the door. "Guys, give us the room for a minute, would you?"

Dusty and the others squeezed themselves past Regal and out the door, leaving Regal alone in a tiny gray room with a man in a too-tight gray suit.

As soon as the door closed, Hunter hooked a finger into his gray silk tie, pulled it loose, and unbuttoned his top shirt button, muttering, "Damn suit. It's like having a noose around around my neck."

"You'd think you'd be used to it by now," Regal remarked blandly.

"You'd think." Hunter leaned back in his chair. "All right, so level with me: I've known you, what, twenty years? I know you like zooming people, messing with their heads, but since when do you just back down from a fight like this? Kid's a whack job, I agree, but he _does_ have a right to another match. And, uh, I can _force_ one, you know. In fact, unless you have some real good reason you bailed on this, I'm thinking I might just do that."

Typical Hunter, Regal thought with no small amount of contempt, as subtle as the nose on his face. "There is a reason," he said, "but it's not one I care to discuss. Dean Ambrose and I have an agreement between us, and that's that."

"Not good enough." Hunter scowled in a way that made him look almost constipated. "In the first place, you don't have the authority to make _agreements_ with these kids. In the second place, what _kind_ of deal did you make?"

It was Regal's turn to lean back in his chair. He crossed one leg over his other knee, leaned a bit to one side, and tilted his head to give Hunter a cool look. "One that is between Dean Ambrose and myself."

"Well, then," Hunter said, "I guess I'll go ahead and have Dusty schedule the match."

"What you really ought to do," Regal said, "is have one single match for the last episode of FCW. Ambrose versus Rollins for the FCW Heavyweight title. What better way to close out FCW than by letting two of your most promising young stars fight over who's going to be the last man to hold the FCW Heavyweight title? That's the point of all this, isn't it? Showcasing your up-and-coming young stars?"

Hunter smirked and shook his head. "Fair point," he said. "Showcasing two young stars, instead of one young star and an old has-been..."

Regal pictured himself casually leaning forward and driving a straight left into Hunter's nose. He smiled. Said nothing.

Hunter's dead-leaf eyes narrowed. "All right," he said. "I'll make that match instead _if_ you tell me your deal with Ambrose. If you don't tell me, then it'll be you in the ring."

After a moment's consideration, Regal said, "He gets his rematch if he wins the FCW title _and_ the WWE Championship."

"Very funny," Hunter said.

"I'm completely serious."

"You...?" Hunter burst out laughing, and continued to do so while Regal sat and watched, idly wishing he'd brought his tea or something else to occupy his hands so they wouldn't wind up around Hunter's throat. "Are you kidding me? You really told that kid you'd give him a rematch if he...?"

"I did, yes."

"And he _agreed_? Jesus Christ, Regal, he's dumber than I thought if he thinks a match with you is worth that much..."

Regal smiled again. "That's as may be, but it's worth it to him. Better still, it's forcing him to work toward the betterment of his career instead of merely fixating on one person. Best for all, wouldn't you say?"

Hunter laughed again. "And it keeps him away from you for at least a few years. I see how it is. That's kind of chicken shit, isn't it? Pathetic, too. Seems to me like you're just afraid you're gonna get your ass kicked."

"Oh, I'm sorry, was that supposed to be an insult? Ah." Regal patted his jacket's pockets. "I know I left my sense of righteous indignation around here somewhere." He shrugged. "Perhaps I left it in my other coat."

"Funny."

"Are we quite done, then? You'll allow us to book Rollins and Ambrose as the final FCW match?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Hunter said. "Get everybody back in here. We've still got business left to finish."

"Of course," Regal said, and just managed to refrain from adding _sir_ at the end of it.

Hunter would, no doubt, mistake sarcasm for a genuine show of respect.

Regal decided on the spot that if he ever _did_ have a chance to step into a position of power again, his first order of business would be to ask Ambrose to introduce Hunter's face to a steel chair.

xXx

Two hours and God only knows how many insults later, Regal made his way into the gym.

This late in the afternoon, only a handful of people were in there, but one of them happened to be the very person Regal was looking for.

Ambrose was doing bench presses, with Leakee spotting. Leakee, hovering over the bar with his hands out to catch it if need be, was saying, "You got three more, man. Just three more. I got ya. Get 'em."

Regal leaned against the leg press machine to watch Ambrose complete his last three shaky reps, and then, with Leakee's help, put the bar back on the stand.

"...ho, shit," Ambrose said, arms flopping down to his sides. "Didn't think I was gonna get that last one."

Leakee smiled and handed Ambrose a towel. "You got it, man."

Regal cleared his throat. "Afternoon, gentlemen."

Leakee glanced over and nodded as Ambrose dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the bench. Ambrose was red-faced, breathing hard, short hair plastered to his scalp and his thin gray tee shirt sweat-soaked. He scrubbed the towel over his eyes, and then looked up. "What's up?"

"I need a word with you," Regal said, straightening, "when you get a few minutes."

Ambrose frowned, but nodded. "Well, we're pretty much done for the day now, so I guess now's as good a time as any."

Regal glanced at Leakee. "Privately, if you don't mind."

"Hang on a second," Ambrose said, standing and draping his towel over his neck. He turned to Leakee and said, "Why don't you get showered and get out of here? Go run your errands and I'll call you later."

Leakee's striking gray eyes – odd on a man with deeply tanned skin and black hair – met Ambrose's clear blue in silent question. Ambrose just nodded and gestured for him to go, which, after another hesitation, Leakee finally did, collecting his own towel on his way.

As soon as he was gone, Ambrose said, "Hey, you mind if we go up to the roof? I need a smoke."

Regal shook his head.

That rather suited his purposes, actually.

The roof was the only designated smoking area in the building, and not typically well-trafficked, as few of the wrestlers smoked and most of the staff who did were already gone for the day.

Ambrose, his towel over his shoulders, and a gray hooded sweatshirt hooked over one arm, led the way past all the offices, up the the narrow staircase, and out onto the roof. It was just a large, flat area ringed by a thigh-high parapet wall, nothing particularly special about it.

It was a warm, humid afternoon out, clear and cloudless and sunny, and, as he followed Ambrose over to the corner that overlooked the alley, he shed his suit coat and draped it over the parapet next to where Ambrose draped his own sweatshirt after extracting his cigarettes and lighter.

"Thought you quit that," Regal said.

Ambrose cupped his hand around the end of the cigarette while he lit it. He took a drag and exhaled, slowly. "Nah," he said. "I just cut back." He scrubbed his hair with his towel and wiped his face again before settling the cigarette back in his mouth. He rested his hands on the parapet and leaned out over the edge a bit before glancing around. "So what did you want?"

Regal leaned back against the wall and said, without preamble, "We're having an all-staff meeting tomorrow, but I thought I'd let you know ahead of time: they're shutting us down next month. FCW, that is, and they're merging us with NXT. Well. I say 'we,' but you won't be going over. Nor will Sandow or Cesaro."

Blinking, Ambrose said, "We going to the main roster?"

"Ah. Well, Sandow and Cesaro are, yes," Regal said carefully, "but you they just want to evaluate for now. See how much trouble you cause on an international tour and so on. Hunter likes you, believe it or not, but he's leery, given all the trouble you've caused down here. Having said that, I don't imagine he'll keep you fighting nobodies for long."

Ambrose took another drag on the cigarette and tapped the ashes down into the alley. "He better not," he muttered. "What about my title shot? I've been waiting a fuckin' _month_ for that, but Dusty won't set a fuckin' date."

"I'm getting to that," Regal said. "This won't be announced for a week or two yet, but it'll be the last FCW taping. We have one match on the card: you versus Rollins in an Iron Man match for the title."

That lit Ambrose's eyes right up. "Fuckin' _nice_," he said.

"They'll be having you join the main roster in I believe New York this weekend, and I thought you ought to know before you left," Regal said.

Just like that, some of the wind came out of Ambrose's sails. "This weekend," he said. He blew out smoke in an irritated puff. "Well, that fuckin' sucks."

"Oh?" Regal said dryly. "You had plans?"

"Well, yeah, I was supposed to..." Ambrose glanced over, shaking his head. "Never mind."

"Doing something with the new man in your life, were you?" Regal guessed. He made a show of examining his fingernails. "What _is_ going on there, anyway?"

Ambrose snorted. "Why, you jealous?"

"Not as such, no," Regal said. "You two make a handsome couple."

"We ain't a fuckin' couple," was the terse answer. "We're just – having fun. Fuckin' around. That's all."

Regal chuckled up at the sky. "Having _fun_," he said. "Quite a euphemism, that. He seems quite taken with you, though I'm not just sure I quite understand _why_."

There was a bit of a pause before Ambrose said, "Fucked if I know why. But whatever. It is what it is, and I ain't complaining."

"Nor should you." Regal turned sideways, resting one hand on the parapet and crossing one foot over the other. "I'm sure I already know the answer to this question, but you haven't, by chance, given any more thought to what to what I said, have you? About us working together?"

Ambrose smashed his cigarette out on the top of the wall and pitched it down into the alley below. "No," he said, leaning forward on his hands again. "Why the fuck do you keep bothering me about this, anyway? I told you, I don't need your help."

"You do, actually," Regal replied. "If I hadn't intervened today, you wouldn't have gotten your title match at all. I had to talk Hunter into it. He had – other ideas."

Ambrose glanced over, frowning. "Like what?"

"It doesn't matter," Regal said. "What does is that this is exactly how this would work: you going out and winning your matches while I deal with people like the McMahons. They're shrewd businesspeople, but they're terrible judges of people. They _hire_ imbeciles to run their shows. They break down anyone they think might stand a chance of unseating John bloody Cena. Anyone with a modicum of patience and a brain can find a way to outmaneuver them, to oust them, to step in and take control.

"With you running roughshod over the roster – causing havoc and playing merry hell with the established order of things on your way to winning the WWE Championship – and me working on the people in charge, there's no reason that, between us, we can't take over the entire company, both of us, and have a great deal of fun while we do it."

Ambrose carded fingers through his still-damp hair and laughed, quietly. "Well, aren't _you_ a megalomaniacal _fuck_," he muttered. "Not enough to just have me win the title. _You_ gotta have the power." He shook his head. "You don't give a shit about me winning the title at all, do you? You just wanna use me to get to the top yourself."

"Yes," Regal admitted, "and no." He tucked his hands in his pockets, straightened away from the wall, and moved so he was standing right beside Ambrose, not touching him, but close enough that he could, if so chose. "I do want you to win the title," he said. "While, as I said, I dealt with Hunter and the McMahons."

This close, Ambrose smelled quite intoxicating: fresh sweat and cigarettes and something else, some very _masculine _scent that was uniquely his. Sunlight caught the sweat still in his hair and the bit that had run down the back of his neck. His tee shirt clung to his back like a second skin while the dark blue shorts hung low on his hips. There was a day's stubble on his face, and his eyes were bright with curiosity and something Regal couldn't quite identify.

"You really think you could?" Ambrose finally asked. "Deal with them?"

"Yes."

"So you'd still be the one on top," Ambrose said. But his lips twitched.

With a small smile of his own, Regal said, "I've actually fancied myself more as the man behind the scenes. The man behind the man, so to speak."

Saying this, he turned so he was standing directly behind Ambrose. He finally let his hands out of his pockets and smiled as they found their way, lightly, onto Ambrose's hips. Nothing subtle about this. The soft fabric of Ambrose's shirt and the ridged waistband of his gym shorts kept Regal from touching any exposed skin, of course, but Ambrose breathed in sharply just the same.

"The fuck are you doing?" the boy asked, his voice gone a bit thick. He made no effort to pull away.

Regal ignored the question. "It's not one using the other," he murmured. He slipped one hand up under the shirt, and skimmed fingers along the taught, damp line of skin just above Ambrose's hip. "It's the two of us working together: one – you – doing the heavy lifting in the front, and the _other_ – me – dealing with the things behind the scenes. And not just on a small scale, either." He let his fingers curl around Ambrose's stomach, and felt a hitched breath. "We are, neither of us, the sort of men content to simply win. We need to _dominate_."

"Get..." Ambrose swallowed. "Get off me." Tension radiated off of him like heat, but he still made no effort to free himself.

Leaning forward, Regal lowered his voice and all but purred, right into his ear, "Imagine, for a moment, not just winning, but laying waste to anyone who's ever gotten in your way. Carving a bloody swath through the place. Leaving the sort of permanent scar that can never be washed away. Being able to do whatever you wanted to whomever you wanted whenever you wanted. And there I stand, right behind you, ready to keep anyone from getting in your way, showing you the way to do the most damage."

Ambrose shuddered, but said nothing.

Regal pressed his chest tightly against Ambrose's back, his hips against Ambrose's ass, effectively trapping Ambrose between himself and the parapet. Slowly, he drew the fingers that had been tracing light circles along the warm, lightly haired skin of Ambrose's stomach lower, and lower still, over the front of Ambrose's shorts.

The thin fabric had begun to strain outward.

"And there's _this_," Regal murmured, trailing his fingers back and forth over the hardness that the shorts did nothing to conceal. He heard – and felt- Ambrose take another sharp, quiet breath, but this one tailed into a breathy, muttered, "_Fuck_." The sound quickened Regal's pulse. "You want this," he said then. "Don't think I didn't see the way you used to look at me. I want this, too, and I can't think of a reason we can't have it. We could have everything. It's there for the taking. We just have to reach out and-" he squeezed Ambrose's erection, gently "-take it. All of it. Everything."

"Jesus," Ambrose muttered, lowering his head. His breathing had gotten a touch ragged. His hips twitched forward, pushing his cock into Regal's hand.

Regal obligingly increased the pressure, smiling to himself.

There they were, the two of them, up on a rooftop on a sunny afternoon, Ambrose with his hands braced on the wall, hips grinding against Regal's hand, as Regal held him from behind.

It was a bit ridiculous, wasn't it?

"_Fuck_," Ambrose muttered again.

Regal, eyes half-lidded and with a lazy little smile, suddenly withdrew, pulling his hands away completely and backing up just enough give Ambrose room to turn around.

After a very long moment, Ambrose did, pushing away from the railing, turning, and leaning back against it. His eyes were glassy and dark and wide as the crawled over Regal's face, and there was something complicated in his expression: a vague frown and tightness in his jaw. He was still obviously erect, and his hands were loose at his sides.

Regal eased forward to stand in front of him, once again giving his hands leave to go wherever they wished. One stayed at his side, while the other chose Ambrose's face, fingers rasping over the stubble there, and the ball of his thumb rolling over Ambrose's lower lip.

Idly, he found himself wondering just what it would feel like, having that wicked mouth on his cock.

He supposed he'd find out soon enough.

Pushing that thought aside, he forced himself to focus. It wasn't an easy task. "It's really quite simple," he said. "You just say yes."

Ambrose's jaw clenched. The frown deepened. Eventually, he batted Regal's hand away from his face and pushed away from the wall. "No," he said. The word sounded ragged, torn. "No, it's not that fucking simple. It's not that fucking simple."

"I told you before there are no hooks here," Regal said calmly. It was his turn to lean back against the wall. His hands found their way back into his pockets. "It's a lot to ask, I know, trusting me, but this is as straightforward as I ever get."

"The fuck it is," Ambrose said. He grabbed his sweatshirt and a few steps toward the roof's door. "It's always some fucking game, and I ain't playin' this time. I don't need your help. I don't want it. I don't give a damn about power or whatever the fuck it is you're after. I just want the fuckin titles, so me and you can have our rematch and be done. That's it."

"That's very short-sighted of you." Regal managed to keep the annoyance out his tone, but it took more effort than cared to admit.

And things had gotten off to such a promising start.

"Yeah, well," Ambrose said, "the way I'm going, I'm gonna die young anyway, so why bother worrying about all that big picture shit?" He waved that off. "Look, you do your thing, I'll do mine, and let's just stay the fuck away from each other until I win those belts. I don't need you in my head."

"Oh, I do believe I'm already there," Regal said.

"You always have been," Ambrose said his tone suddenly cold.

Regal smiled a sharp little smile. "I know. And now you'd like me out, is that it? May I remind you you're the one who started us down this path to begin with? If you'd just bloody left well enough alone, we wouldn't be here right now." His irritation getting the better of him, he shook his head. "But do go on, then. Don't even bother to consider what you're being offered. Don't waste your time on the larger picture. Don't bother to thank me, either, for making sure you didn't lose your opportunity for a title match. Just run along and tilt at your windmills. I won't try to stop you, and if you wish, I will stay out of your way."

Ambrose gave him a narrow look, all burning blue eyes and lowered eyebrows. "You better. And you better not fuck me out of my rematch."

"Yes, yes, do run along, boy," Regal said, waving him off as he turned away. "Good bye."

"I'm not-"

"Good bye."

He rested his hands on top of the parapet and stared sightless down into the dark alley below as footsteps retreated behind him. The door opened and then clicked shut.

Regal took a deep, slow, breath and let it out.

The boy was a bloody fool, but it was at himself that Regal directed most of his irritation: it had been a rash, half-conceived plan at best born out of his blind anger at Hunter today, irrational and stupid, and he'd made a complete fool out of himself just now, hadn't he?

Really, what possible reason had he ever given Ambrose to trust him?

Not that _he_ trusted Ambrose, half-tamed dog that he was, but this had been doomed to fail before it had even begun, hadn't it?

For what possible reason could he have thought that a young man who never did anything in any way but his own would consent to doing things someone else's way?

His way hadn't _truly_ failed him yet.

_Yet_.

Perhaps, in time, it would.

Perhaps then he might listen.

Then again...

Regal shook his head, chuckled ruefully, and muttered, "Bloody fool."

He would do what Ambrose asked, he supposed, and stay out of the way.

But he would watch, from a distance, and keep an eye out for an opportunity.

He wanted this too bloody much, he suddenly realized, to simply retreat to nurse his wounded ego. And if not Ambrose, perhaps there would be someone else, some other young star with questionable morals and ambition to burn.

The trouble was, he wouldn't be able to let this go.

Not now.

It wasn't over.

xXx

Although he and Ambrose would see each other in passing – hard to avoid one another when they worked in the same building – they didn't speak again until Survivor Series, some eighteen months later.

In fact, the only time Ambrose even acknowledged him was at the last FCW taping, when, after one of the most grueling and brutal matches Regal had seen during his tenure at commentary, Ambrose dragged himself into the ring and pinned Seth Rollins to become the FCW Heavyweight Champion.

Afterward, bleeding from a cut on his forehead and covered in welts, he'd struggled to his feet and staggered over to the side of the ring closest to the commentary desk. He'd lifted the title in the air, looked at Regal with something like exultation, and mouthed, "One down."

Regal had offered a mock salute.

No, he'd thought, no, this wasn't over.

Far from it.

_Damn_.

_**Now:  
**__**New Orleans, April 2014**_

The room Regal leads them to is a small office of some sort, one with a heavy, windowless wooden door. The production staff had turned it into a storage area for some of their equipment cases and other items that won't be needed again until after the show is over. A small desk has been shoved against one wall just under a whiteboard, while several four-foot high crate stacks are lined up against other walls.

The room is cramped, but they've made do with less.

Plus, there's a lock on the door, which he clicks over just as soon as he closes the door behind them.

His guard dropping just a bit, he lets out a slow breath and leans back against the door.

Ambrose, leaning against the opposite wall, snorts and says, "You too, huh?"

"I'll be quite happy to see this day done," Regal admits.

"Makes two of us." Ambrose scrubs a hand over his face, and then lets his hand fall down to the side of his leg, where he pulls open one of his pockets and extracts what turns out to be a travel-sized bottle of lube. He tosses it across to Regal with an amused-sounding, "Here. I was gonna try to sneak Roman away for a quickie, but the fucker just wanted to talk."

"The horror." Regal catches the bottle, lazily, and, as he's examining it, chuckles. It's even his preferred band. "Right," he says at last, "well, as much as I hate to, we actually _do_ need to talk. It'll just take a minute."

Ambrose nods and folds his arms over his chest. "Yeah, we do," he says. "Cesaro and Swagger? What the fuck?"

Regal raises eyebrows at that. "You know about that."

"Yeah, Seth saw 'em all talking a bit ago. What's the deal?"

"Wade decided he wanted a bit of extra insurance for the ladder match," Regal says, and then adds, with a raised hand, "Not my doing. He's offered to help them win the tag titles."

There's no change in the expression on Ambrose's face, which Regal takes to mean he'd already sussed that out for himself. "He coming alone or are you coming with him?" Ambrose asks instead.

"No," Regal says. "This he's doing himself. I'll be out there for the ladder match, with Swagger and Cesaro waiting in the wings over here should anything go wrong."

"Yeah, I figured," Ambrose says. "That motherfucker."

"Anything he can do to win. He's not so different from you that way. How you _were_, at least, before you became-"

"Shut up," Ambrose cuts him off. "I did what I had to at the time. Now I just gotta...deal."

"Well, if the last six months have been any indication-"

"Did you come here to fuck or because you want me to kick your ass?"

Regal shakes his head. "You really _are_ in a bad way right now, aren't you?"

"I just want to get out there and start fucking shit up. Get it all over with."

"One way or another, it will be soon, dear boy," Regal says. "That was all I had, by the way."

Ambrose clears his throat. "Well, so you know, we're gonna be head hunting during the tag match. You show your face down there, you better be ready to take a power bomb 'cuz, uh, I know Seth and Roman are dying to do it, and I think it'd funnier 'n shit myself, so..." He shrugs a shoulder. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I appreciate that," Regal says dryly. "Now, then."

He straightens away from the door as Ambrose pushes away from the opposite wall, and just that little bit of movement is enough to change the air, to _charge_ it. Ambrose's expression becomes coy, but sharp, desire and vicious amusement together in a look that's as much challenge as invitation. Regal feels his own smile curl into something quite predatory, as his desire wraps its dark little fingers around the base of his spine.

They meet somewhere in the middle of the room, somehow, the two of them, and it's nothing like usual.

There's nothing slow or controlled about it, nothing calculated, no games, no real caution.

What happens right there in the middle of that room is a war, small-scale, brief but intense enough to drown out everything else.

They meet somewhere in the middle of the room, the two of them, and it's all biting kisses and Regal shoving Ambrose back against the wall and Ambrose pushing him back and then surging forward to meet him. It's hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling, and touching – _wanting_ and _needing_.

_Oh God_, Regal needs this.

And somehow, eventually, Ambrose ends up stripped down completely naked, his black Shield uniform laid out neatly on one of the stacks of crates next to Regal's suit jacket and trousers.

Regal backs Ambrose up against the desk at the front of the room and spends a moment just running his hands all over him, feeling all newly-defined planes and ridges of muscle in his chest and arms and torso, everything so sharp and clear and distinct.

Like Wade, but not like him at all.

When he's had enough of being touched, Ambrose grabs Regal's hand and drags him in for another biting kiss, and after that, it's back into that unthinking frenzy: bending Ambrose over the desk and getting slick fingers into him, getting him stretched and ready, listening to him curse and groan, feeling him start to push back to get more contact with the fingers in him.

Regal coats his own aching erection with the lube, gets himself lined up, and pushes in, steadily, and Ambrose bites out a strangled, _"Oh, fuck,"_ as his knuckles go white on the far edge of the desk. The sound of it – raw pain and pleasure – and the tight, slick heat surrounding his cock are almost enough to send Regal over the edge in record time.

Almost.

There is literally nothing in his mind right now except this.

And he ruts against Ambrose in a way he hasn't rutted against anyone since he was a young man, all technique and manners forgotten in that blazing need to own and control and bloody _get off,_ and Ambrose is rutting against him just as much, making these wildly incoherent noises – more bitten-back curses, grunts, and groans – and one of his hands finds its way to his own erection and begins working it quickly.

Regal hooks one arms around Ambrose's waist and slips his other hand down to slap Ambrose's hand away. He wraps that hand tightly around Ambrose's cock himself, stroking it hard and fast, and Ambrose, both hands now braced on the edge of the desk, lowers his head and mutters, "Jesus fucking Christ. Oh, _fuck._"

Some fiercely possessive urge, no doubt from the recesses of Regal's reptilian brain, shoots through him, and it tilts him over the very precipice he's been trying to avoid.

He doesn't stop or slow, just loses himself – _them_ – in a frenetic, sloppy push-pull rhythm: heat, and friction building, and he hears himself saying, "You're mine," into the back of Ambrose's shoulder.

Ambrose doesn't answer, really, but all of a sudden, his whole body tenses, and the next thing Regal knows, Ambrose is coming, his entire body tightening and clenching at once as he spills all over Regal's hand and onto the floor.

It's enough to send Regal tilting toward the precipice of his own orgasm, so he lets go of Ambrose's cock, grabs his hips, and thrusts furiously until, at last, _at last_, his release comes.

"Oh, God..."

It speeds through him like a bullet, and it's such a bloody relief that his knees very nearly buckle. He catches himself on the edge of the desk with one hand as he rides it out, teeth grit to keep himself quiet.

Finally, it's all over.

The only sound in the room is the two of them breathing, harsh and fast.

For that moment, though, Regal's mind is quiet, absolutely and blissfully still. He lets his eyes drift shut, slips his arms around Ambrose's chest, and rests his forehead on the back of Ambrose's shoulder.

One of Ambrose's hands finds its way up to cover one of Regal's, and squeezes lightly.

Just for a moment.

Eventually, of course, the moment passes, and reality creeps in first with the protest in his back and knees, and then a sense of place, and time, and finally, when he can ignore it no longer, Regal lets go, slips himself out of Ambrose, and, on slightly unsteady legs, turns away to begin putting himself back together.

Ambrose stays where he is for a few seconds more, just watching, looking calm, if a bit dazed.

Finally, he pushes away from the desk and heads over to the where he'd set his clothes.

They don't, either of them, say anything as they go about the business of cleaning themselves up and dressing and straightening the room, but they keep exchanging brief looks as they work: Regal frowning and Ambrose uncertain. There's some new tension in the air, and clearly something needs to be said, but Regal is damned if he knows what.

He's moving, yes, but his mind still feels a bit like it's on some slow carousel, his thoughts spinning lazily through some hazy, gauze-wrapped landscape, and he knows whatever he says – if he says anything at all – will be something too bloody honest for his own good.

So he says nothing.

Ambrose isn't quite finished cleaning up when Regal turns to leave the little room.

Before he even completes his turn, though, Ambrose, who's crouched in front of the desk and is using a handkerchief to mop up the floor there, says, without looking up, "You know, if you get my way out there tonight, I'm gonna have to kick your ass."

There's no real heat in it – in fact it sounds fairly good-humored – and so, Regal looks at him and says, "I think you'll try, but we both know why you won't."

"You think I'd let your little boyfriend stop me?" Ambrose asks, glancing around with a little smirk. He rises, wads the soiled handkerchief into a ball, and stuffs it into his pocket. "Hate to break it to you, but Barrett's got a glass jaw. I can take him, no sweat."

"You know," Regal muses, "I've had fantasies about that..."

"What, me and Barrett...aw, man." Ambrose makes a disgusted face. "No. No fuckin' way. I fuckin' _hate_ that prick."

"Believe me, the feeling is more than mutual," Regal says, chuckling. "That's what makes the idea so appealing. For me, at least. The things you two would do to one another..."

Ambrose laughs, too, and claps Regal's shoulder. "You're a sick fuck, you know that? And coming from me, that's saying something."

"I'll take that as a compliment, then." Still smiling, Regal reaches up and runs a hand along the stubbly line of Ambrose's jaw before drawing him in for a last kiss, this one slow and easy, quite leisurely, really.

It's Ambrose who finally breaks the kiss and steps away, wiping his face as he steps toward the door. But he pauses as he reaches it, glances over his shoulder to catch Regal's eye, and says, "I always have been," he says. "And you know it."

And with that, he pulls the door open, glances around the hall, and walks away.

The door clicks shut between them.

"I know," Regal tells the empty room.

Feeling more clear-headed and calmer, he pushes all thoughts of everything except tonight's matches firmly into the back of his mind, straightens, and makes his way out of the room.

xXx

A/N: I made a very rough outline of this story the other day, and we're looking at about nine story chapters plus an epilogue, so about ten in total. I'll be done with the back story – the "Then" parts – after chapter six. Chapters seven through nine will focus on what's in the "Now". The epilogue will be a Then/Now thing. Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: As always, thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. Sorry about the delay. It took me about a dozen revisions to beat this thing into submission. And it still wound up being a hell of a lot longer than I meant to be. Roman had a LOT to say. Enjoy.

_**Now:  
**__**New Orleans, April 2014**_

_Seth snorts. "Fuck you, Reigns. How many times have I had to stand there and watch you and Ambrose all over each other? You guys would do the fuckin' dirty in the car if I let you."_

"_Yep," Roman says without a hint of shame. "And you know you'd watch." He gives Seth a long, slow look. "And you know, Dean has been trying to talk me into a threesome, so it could even be an interactive experience for you. Hell, you could even bring Kaitlyn. I doubt she'd mind. I wouldn't. Neither would Dean._"

_Seth just stares at him, open-mouthed._

"_Your face, man," Roman says, laughing hard. It feels good to laugh, like it's breaking some of the tension that's building up around them_.

It's a joke, and it's not, but Seth stands there blinking at him for a good ten seconds like his brain has short-circuited. Finally, he just shakes his head and mutters, "Fuck off," before he starts pacing in front of the crate Roman's taken a seat on. "So can we talk about this match, or what? What we're gonna do? I've been doing some thinking, and..."

He starts talking strategy, and, as is sometimes the case when Seth gets going, Roman finds himself only listening with half an ear, nodding and saying "Uh-huh" in the right places, and mostly just watching.

The last six months have definitely been great for Seth, who's really become the de facto leader of the group. Dean does most of the talking, still, because he's by far and away the most eloquent of the three of them, but Seth is the one who maps out their strategy now and guides things in the ring. And it's Seth everybody pops huge for, especially when he gets a hot tag and goes in house afire.

And no wonder: Seth is the best of all of them in the ring, flashy and fast and exciting.

They scream and holler for Roman, too, especially when he gets a tag and starts bulling his way through his opponents, but it's pretty clear Seth is starting to stand out.

He'd gotten lost in the shuffle a little during the Corporation run because Hunter for some reason had a hard-on for Roman and Dean, and couldn't have cared less about Seth, so more often than not Seth became the group's whipping boy, ignored and overshadowed.

Watching him now, hands waving in the air like a conductors as he describes a particular angle of attack he wants to take against "Thwagger," Roman smiles. His own strategy is mostly just going to be "wait for a chance to spear somebody," like always, but if Seth wants to pretend they have this huge, grand plan, Roman isn't going to stop him.

In a way, he feels a little like a proud older brother.

Although he guess it'd probably be weird for an older brother to be noticing the way his little brother's ass fills out the pants he's wearing, or the way his shirt seems to be getting tighter and tighter on his arms lately...

"...like that," Seth finishes. "Sound good?"

Roman forces his eyes up. "Yeah, man," he says. "Sounds cool."

Seth grins. "They'll never see it coming," he says.

"They sure won't," Roman says agreeably. He has no idea what Seth is talking about, but, as he wanders over to sit down on the stack of crates next to Roman's, Seth doesn't seem to notice.

He doesn't say anything, in fact, just digs his phone out of his pocket and starts playing Candy Crush Saga, apparently all done talking. Roman eventually pulls out his own phone and goes back to reading his Twitter feed.

He's in the middle in an article one of his teammates from Georgia posted when he hears Seth say, "So, uh, were you serious about me and Kaitlyn hooking up with you and Dean?"

"Nah," Roman says without looking up. "Not really. Why?"

"No reason," Seth says. "Just wondering. Wouldn't that be kind of weird? All of us hooking up?"

Roman, fighting off a smile, says, "I don't know, man. I've never done that before. Been in a foursome. Or a threesome. Probably would be at first, but, hell, it could be fun." He shuts his phone off and slips it back into his pocket. "You ever done anything like that?"

"No," Seth says. "I always wanted to – you know, me and two chicks – but I never did. I don't think Kaitlyn would go for it." He frowns, though. "That wasn't what I meant, anyway. You don't think it would be weird if _we_ all did it? Because we're, like, friends. Wouldn't that make things kinda – I don't know – awkward?"

"I don't think so," Roman says. "To be honest with you, I think it would be fun. I'm pretty sure Kaitlyn would go for it. I would. I know Dean would. "

"Really? But how would that, you know, work? One girl, three guys..."

"We'd figure it out," Roman says. "Long as you're clear from the start what you do and don't want to do, I think we'd be all right. Besides that, I don't think all three of us would be trying to pile onto her. You know what I mean?"

Seth looks off at the field entrance again, scratching his beard. "I don't know," he says. "I still think it'd be weird as hell."

"Then don't worry about it," Roman says, trying hard to keep his tone light and his disappointment out of his voice. "You're not into it, you're not into it. No big deal."

"I didn't say I wasn't into it," Seth says. "Just – I'm not sure Kaitlyn would go for it."

"Well, if you're up for it, then maybe you could talk to her," Roman says. "She might surprise you."

Seth hesitates a long time.

"Hey," Roman finally says, "don't worry about it, huh? If you don't want to, then don't. I wasn't even serious about it, anyway."

"Well, that's the thing," Seth says. "Now that you bring it up, I kind of think I do. I've heard you guys through the walls a few times, and it's like, well, for one, it's annoying as fuck. Like, seriously. The whole fuckin' hotel can hear you sometimes. But it's...I mean, I'm not gay, or anything, but it's kinda, you know, hot. Like _Jesus_, you two really sound like you're fuckin' tearin' in up."

"Yeah, yeah, we do." Even now, after two years, he and Dean are still going strong in that department.

Stands to reason: this thing between them started with casual sex, and, over time, slowly grown into what it is now.

Seth shifts, looks down at his hands. "Does it...? I mean, it sounds like you get pretty crazy sometimes."

"Been known to, yeah."

"Huh. What's it like? Having another guy, uh, you know, uh, do you? Or even like doing one?"

"Takes some getting used to," Roman admits, "but once you do, it's no big deal. You wouldn't have to go that far, though, not if you didn't want to."

"I see." Seth shrugs. "I think I will talk to Kaitlyn. See what she says."

"Well, it's up to you, man," Roman says. "If you and Kaitlyn both want to, cool. If not, like I said, no big deal. Don't tie yourself up in knots about it."

"I'll let you know. How about that?"

"Cool, man," Roman says, earlier disappointment giving way to a cautious kind of excitement.

Could be a lot of fun.

Right about then, Dean walks around the corner, and when Roman gets a look at him, his good humor cools a little. Dean's still got that thousand-yard stare working for him, like he's off in his own little world. He doesn't even seem to be paying attention to where he's going, because he almost walks right past Seth and Roman – would have, except Roman calls over, "Hey!"

Dean jerks to a stop, blinks, and, when he sees Seth and Roman, he says, "Oh, there you guys are." He heads over to lean against the wall between the two crates Roman and Seth are sitting on. At some point while he was gone, he'd combed his hair back – it had been messy and dry when he'd left. His face is a little red, too, but some of the tension that Roman had seen around his eyes looks like it's gone.

Before he can dig at that too much, though, Dean sweeps Seth and Roman in a quick look and says, "So I got a couple ideas I wanna run by you guys, and then one other thing I think we need to talk about." He folds his arms over his chest. "First of all, you guys can't get involved in the ladder match, but I think we got a couple things we can do about that."

"Yeah," Seth says, "we can find Cesaro and Thwagger ahead of time and keep them from coming down to the ring. That's what I was saying to Roman."

It's news to Roman; must have been one of the things Seth was saying a bit ago.

Dean nods. "Yep. That's one of my ideas. Call it a hunch, but I think Barrett is planning to make this personal to me, so I want you guys to hang around the concourse where I go out. But if I'm wrong about that, then who do we know who either has a beef with Cesaro and Swagger or just owes us a favor?"

Roman and Seth exchange looks. "The Usos," Roman says.

"Darren and Titus, too," Seth says. "Why? What are you thinking?"

"Well," Dean says, glancing off toward the field entrance, "you're the only two who've been barred from ringside, right? So if Swagger and Cesaro – or anyone else, for that matter – gets by you, we could always send somebody else out. I'm thinking maybe I'm gonna talk to Ziggler, Christian, and Sheamus – let 'em know what Barrett and Regal are up to. Because it won't just be me they're targeting. Regal's gonna stack the deck any way he can to get Barrett the win. Maybe this way, with the other guys' buddies keeping an eye on things backstage, we can contain the bullshit back there."

"You think they've got more than Swagger and Cesaro?" Roman asks.

Dean nods. "Anything is possible, knowing Regal. Better to be safe than sorry."

"No shit," Seth says. "That's a pretty good idea, getting other guys to keep control of things backstage. We'll do that. But, uh, hey, speaking of Regal, if we get a chance tonight, we want to power bomb him."

"Definitely," Roman says. "For all the crap he's pulled the past couple months, we owe him one."

This, for some reason, makes Dean chuckle, quietly. "I had a feeling you guys were gonna say that," he says. "I'm in. He shows his face, he pays the price. Him or Barrett – whichever one comes out."

"What if they both do?" Seth asks. He frowns over at Roman. "Maybe we better see if we can get Jimmy and Jey to keep an eye out during _our_ match, too."

"Five on four," Roman says, shrugging. "I'll take those odds."

Nodding, Dean says, "When we go talk to everybody, let's try to be discreet. I don't want to tip our hand."

"Maybe we should split up," Roman says. "Me and Seth go talk to the tag teams, you go talk to the ladder match guys. We can all meet back here when we're done."

Seth actually laughs at that. "Like we're doing some real spy shit, huh?"

Roman chuckles, too. "Well, hell, we're dressed in tactical gear. Maybe we should get some ropes and harness while we're at it."

"Ropes and harnesses?" Seth says. "We're talking about _spying_, not your sex life."

"Which you seem _very_ interested in all of a sudden," Roman can't help point out. "Speaking of which, De-"

"_Don't_," Seth says over him. He puts a hand on Roman's chest and gives him a little shove. "Don't you fuckin' dare. Not yet. Let me talk to Kaitlyn first."

"Oh, come on, dog," Roman says. "What's the big deal? Let me tell him. He'll get a kick out of it."

"No," Seth says. "Just – wait, all right? Just wait."

"So what if I win?" Dean asks just then, quietly. When Roman looks over, he sees Dean frowning down at him and Seth both, brushing his chin with his knuckes. "I know nobody thinks I'm going to, but what if I do? We haven't even considered that possibility."

Seth glances at Roman, smile fading, and says, "Well, no offense, but I think we were just going to hold off on that discussion until after you _did_ win. Sorry. I'm not trying to be an asshole or anything, but it's like why worry about it unless you do ? You won't be cashing in tonight _anyway_, so what's the big deal?"

"Why wouldn't I cash in tonight?" Dean asks, his frown deepening. "It'd be the perfect time. Those guys are gonna be exhausted after their match. Regardless of who won, it'd be a piece of cake to walk out there and-"

"Don't even think about it," Seth says.

Dean turns a calculating look onto Seth's face. "Why?" he asks. "That's the whole point of the contract – anytime, anywhere. Doesn't matter who. You look for your advantage and you take it. What's the big deal?"

"What if Danny wins tonight?" Seth asks. He stands up, folding his arms over his chest. "_Our friend_ Daniel." His voice starts climbing in volume. "You remember him, don't you? First guy who stood up for us after Survivor Series? The guy who's had our back since then? _Our friend_. We don't cheat our friends like that."

Roman stands himself and sidles a step closer to Seth, reaching out to put a hand on his chest. "Take it _easy_," he says. "Lower your voice."

"How would that be cheating, exactly, Seth?" Dean asks. "Everybody who's won the damn briefcase has done it. What, I suppose you'd want me to go out and just ask for a match? And just so we're clear – if it's Punk who wins, would you care?"

Seth pushes a step closer and stares at Dean like he's trying to burn holes in his face. Through his teeth, he says, "Yeah, I'd care. We don't _do_ that shit to people. We're not those guys anymore. We come at people the right way. Meaning, yes, I'd prefer it if you went out there _like a man_ and asked whoever won for a match, be it Daniel or Punk or whoever."

Roman, frowning himself, turns to Dean and says, "Way you're talking is like Orton did it, man. You saw how that turned out."

"You say that like Orton's the only one who ever fuckin' did it that way," Dean says, shaking his head. "He wasn't. Everybody who's held that fuckin' briefcase has done it. And since when is Bryan our friend? We're allies, yeah, but we've paid him like five times already. We don't owe him shit." He raises a hand. "We've been saying all along – even after we hopped the fence here – that we want to get to the top, right? If the opportunity's there, why shouldn't we take it? That's all I'm saying."

Seth's face twists up even more, if possible, mouth all but disappearing under his beard and his eyes shadowed under a heavy scowl. "I don't know how many times we've told you we want to earn our way to the top," he says. "Do things the right way. Sneak-attacking somebody – who _is_ our friend – is not the right way. But it's a moot point right now anyway, because you _haven't_ won the briefcase yet, and, let's face it, the way you've been going you probably aren't-"

"Hey!" Roman cuts him off.

"What?" Seth says, blinking. "I'm just trying to be realistic-"

"No," Roman says over him. "You're being an asshole. That ain't necessary."

"How am I being an asshole?" Seth asks heatedly. "Huh? I'm just-"

"All right!" Dean snaps. "Both of you just calm the fuck down. It's _fine_." He looks at Seth, all cool blue eyes and calm expression. "I'm not trying to piss you off," he says, voice much quieter. "I'm just trying to figure this out. I know what I _would _do, but I guess that's not what 'guys like us' are _supposed_ to do. That's why I asked. And, like you said, you know, with all this shit going on with Regal and Barrett and six other guys being out there, I'm probably not gonna win anyway. But still."

"You just think about what you'd normally do," Seth says, "and do the opposite."

"Knock it off," Roman says quietly.

Seth backs away. "All right, all right, all right. Okay. I'm sorry. But it _is_ kinda true." The anger is already starting to fade from his face. "Look, just concentrate on winning the briefcase tonight, all right? We'll take care of things back here."

Roman looks around at Dean. "That's the first step," he says. "None of this even matters until then anyway."

Dean closes his eyes, briefly, and sighs as he nods. A muscle in his jaw ticks. "Yeah," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "All right."

Roman looks back and forth between Seth and Dean, and says, "You two good?"

Like any two brothers who've had an argument, Dean and Seth give each other a long, grudging look. Dean finally nods, and Seth says, "Yeah, now that we're all on the same page." He even smiles and adds, "And, hey, I mean, come on, Dean. You just do your thing out there. You know? Focus. Concentrate."

"My thing," Dean says with a strange little smile. He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Right."

Roman edges over to nudge him. "You got this."

"You do, man," Seth says. "You're due. I can feel it. Tonight's the night."

"More pep talks." Dean shakes his head, eyes narrowing with mild amusement. "You know, if this wrestling shit doesn't work for you two, you could always have careers as, like, counselors or whatever. Like in high school."

"Screw that," Seth says. "Although now that you mention it, Kaitlyn thinks we'd all make great underwear models. Or strippers."

"Guidance counselors by day, strippers by night," Dean says thoughtfully. "Something for the whole family. I think we could do worse for career choices..."

Roman, riding a sudden surge of relieved affection, slings an arm around his shoulders. "You think I want people staring at your ass in a g-string? Because if you think I'm gonna let anybody else get a chance to see that before me, you got another thing coming, boy."

Dean's expression takes a turn for the wicked as he slips his own arm around Roman's back. "You want me in a g-string, Roman baby, just say the word."

After a quick glance around to make sure nobody's nearby, Roman grins and says, "I'll say it, then. Make it happen. Surprise me."

"'Surprise me,' he says," Dean says, chuckling. "Oh, that's always a dangerous thing to say to me..."

"You don't scare me," Roman says.

This, for some reason, chases the smile off of Dean's face. "I don't," he says, frowning, "do I?"

Roman shakes his head and says, "Nope."

"You two need to fuckin' stop," Seth says then. "I am gonna fuckin' puke."

Roman raises eyebrows at him. "Dog, not ten minutes ago, you were asking me about you and Kaitlyn having a foursome with Dean and me, so don't-"

"Dude, shut the fuck up!" Seth yelps, dark eyes gone wide.

Dean looks back and forth between Seth and Roman, eyebrows raised. "I thought that's what that was about," he says. "What's the deal?"

"I suggested it, and he said he'd talk to Kaitlyn about it," Roman says without a drop of remorse. "He said he was curious."

Dean, of course, lights right up. "I fucking _told_ you."

"Yeah, you did," Roman says.

"Man, fuck you guys," Seth says. "I said I _might_."

Roman looks at Dean, who shrugs. The two of them let go of one another and move to stand on either side of Seth, both close enough that they can lean on either of his shoulders.

Seth looks at them with wide, panicky eyes. "What are you doing?"

Dean, forearm on Seth's left shoulder, gives him a warm, flirty sort of look – the look, in fact, that Roman remembers Dean turning on _him_ a couple years ago. Dean reaches up to brush dyed-blond hair away from Seth's ear. "We've been talking about this for a while, you know," he says, voice dropping low and becoming very smooth.

Roman lowers _his_ voice, too, and bends down to speak right into Seth's other ear. "Yes, we have."

Seth is still as a statue.

"Think about it," Dean says.

"Talk to Kaitlyn," Roman says.

"Let us know."

"Anytime you want."

With that, the two of them push away, and leave Seth just standing there, still wide-eyed, staring straight ahead.

Dean glances at Roman, and then nods at Seth. "I think we broke him," he says.

"I think we did," Roman says, stifling a laugh. "Well, shit, now what am I gonna do about the tag match?"

"You know I got your back," Dean says quietly.

Roman's question had been half-joking, but Dean's answer is serious enough to make Roman look over at him. Dean's just watching him, apology and a million other things in his eyes, and Roman looks back at him with exasperation – all Dean's moods going up and down like this, it really _is_ like living with a damn roller coaster sometimes – before that's washed away in another little rush of affection.

He reaches over and hooks an arm around Dean's shoulders again, this time reeling him all the way in. Dean, on his toes, rests his forehead on Roman's shoulder and hugs him back just as tightly.

They don't say anything, and that's fine as far as Roman's concerned. Sometimes words just screw things up, make them too damn complicated.

There's nothing complicated about this, and there doesn't need to be.

Dean finally steps away, and smooths down the front of his shirt. "All right," he says, voice becoming businesslike again. "So you guys can go ahead and find the tag teams. I'll hang here a minute and then follow you up. Just remember – be discreet"

Seth, whose brain finally seems to have started back up, grins and says, "Oh, yeah. Spy shit."

"It's more like a chess game, actually," Dean says. "Getting our moves laid out ahead of time to counter his."

Roman and Seth exchange a look. "That's boring," Roman says. "This is _Special Ops: Shield Style_."

"Oh, now that _that _is bad ass!" Seth says. He turns toward the main passage. "Come on, Reigns. Let's go carry this shit out."

"On your six, man," Roman says.

He follows Seth a few steps, but pauses to look back one more time, the "I love you, you crazy asshole" he hadn't said earlier on his tongue.

But Dean's off staring at the field entrance again, looking completely lost in whatever's going on in his head.

In the end, Roman decides to leave him be.

There'll be plenty of time later.

xXx

_**Then:  
Pittsburgh, January 2014**_

"You guys sure you don't want me to come down with you?" Dean asked, smoothing down the tape on his left wrist.

They were up on the concourse, about five minutes before Seth and Roman were due to head down for their big Royal Rumble four-way tag match, Dean standing off near the security guys while Seth and Roman finished a quick warm up.

Seth, who'd been stretching his legs, looked up and said, "I think we're good. Nobody else has anybody coming down, so this should be a pretty clean fight. You can come down when we win, though."

"If we do," Roman said. He finished his last pushup, stood, and grabbed his water bottle off the top of a nearby trashcan.

"_When_," Seth corrected him, standing himself. "Positive thinking, man. We've beaten every one of these teams before." He glanced over at Dean. "We'll be all right. Like I said, just come down and celebrate when we win."

As he pulled his hair out of its loose tail and wet it down, Roman didn't bother to point out that it wasn't the two of them against three other teams; it was all four teams against each other, and all it was going to take for them to lose their belts was somebody pinning anybody from another team. It didn't matter if he had Seth had beaten every time once or a hundred damn times, and tonight was definitely less about 'when' than 'if.'

He didn't point it out because he knew Seth already knew.

It was just Seth's way of psyching himself up.

Getting ready for battle.

Wiping a runaway drop of water from his eyes, Roman combed his hair back off his face and finally turned back to look at Dean, who was glaring over at a group of on-lookers who'd gathered around to stare at them like they were damn zoo animals.

Like Seth and Roman, Dean was in the Rumble match itself – which was happening right after this big tag match – but unlike Seth and Roman, he didn't have a match of his own outside of that.

He didn't have a title to defend anymore, and lost his shot at getting it back, so he'd been drifting between meaningless singles losses without a whole lot of direction.

Ever since they'd jumped the fence and become good guys, things had been clicking for Seth and Roman. They'd been on a tear. Dean hadn't quite found his groove yet, but was trying, and Roman was pretty sure it was just a matter of time before he settled in.

They just had to be patient and try to ignore his bad moods.

Roman shouldered his title belt and walked over to stand next to him.

Dean glanced over, frown becoming a questioning look. "You ready?"

"When am I not?" Roman asked, mock-offended.

That earned him a small smile, at least. "Then you got this."

"We got this," Roman said, nodding. "So you go back and relax, huh? Watch the match, get ready for yours, come down and join the party when we win."

"Will do," Dean said, fiddling with his wrist tape again.

The first notes of their music hit, and Roman pushed everything out his mind except the job at hand. Excitement crouched low in his stomach like an animal coiled to strike.

Crowd noise hit them like a wall of sound, the lights were blinding, the music thumping, and everything after he and Seth stopped to bump forearms with Dean became a blur.

It was all-out war, brutal and fast, and there was no time to think.

But he and Seth, man, when they were on, they didn't need to really think. They just needed to go out and do what they knew how.

Win.

Seth moved around the ring like a damn tornado and Roman charged around like a bull, and between them, somehow, after almost twenty minutes of being ganged up on and thrown around, of busted-up pins and near misses, of people flying around everywhere, the two of them found themselves alone in the ring with one other guy.

It was the damn Big Show, who with Mark Henry had been dominating the match most of the night. But not this time. Seth hit a low drop kick that sent Show reeling, and Roman exploded out of the corner to catch Show square in the chest with a spear that shook the whole damn ring.

They covered Show together.

The crowd, which had been chanting 'This is awesome!' throughout the match, counted along with them. They went absolutely crazy when the ref counted three.

The Shield's music hit, and Seth, looking a little dazed from a head-first tumble he'd taken onto the announce table earlier, rolled over and blinked at Roman.

"We did it!"

Roman crawled over to him, and dragged him to his feet. "Damn, son!" he laughed, slinging an arm around Seth's shoulders. "We did."

Seth pounded Roman's back. "We did it! Holy fuck, we did it!" He sounded like a kid on Christmas morning. "We did it!"

The ref handed them their tag belts, and they both shoved them into the air while the crowd screamed and the music blared. Roman, who felt both beat to hell and like he was on top of the whole damn world, turned to watch for Dean coming out of the crowd.

Dean didn't come, though.

Instead, the crowd started booing, and the next thing Roman knew, something smashed into him from behind – a fist or a foot – and the next thing Roman knew after _that_, he was on the mat, and somebody was kicking the back of his head, his shoulders, his back.

It didn't last long, though, because somebody else pulled whoever was kicking Roman away. Roman, stunned, rolled to his back and then dragged himself up to lean against the ring post to see what the hell had happened.

Jay and Jimmy Uso, along with Darren Young and Titus O'Neil, were stomping the crap out of Mark Henry and the Big Show, while Seth was pummeling the Miz in another corner.

Roman got to his feet and yelled, "Move!" at Seth.

Seth did.

Roman charged.

The spear sent the Miz back-first into the ring post.

"Kick my head, I will break your face!" Roman yelled at him, the words all but drowned out by the crowd noise.

The Usos and the Prime Time Players had gotten Henry and Show out of the ring, and now all three teams stood in the middle of the ring, celebrating. Jay and Jimmy raised Roman's hands while Darren and Titus raised Seth's. They'd all gotten to be pretty damn good friends and friendly rivals over the past month, and this, Roman thought was, cool as hell.

They all exchanged fist bumps and back slaps, and then Jay, Jimmy, Darren, and Titus climbed down out of the ring while the crowd continued to voice its approval.

Roman raised his tag belt again and so did Seth, but they both frowned over at one another.

With the Miz coming at them like this, Roman had a bad feeling something had happened, so after a few seconds, he leaned over and said, "Let's go."

"Right behind you," Seth said.

Because Dean had never left them in the lurch before, not ever.

They raced up the ramp and pushed back through the curtain, walked past the production team, and headed straight back into the little room that had been designated as the waiting area for guys who were about to go out into the ring. It wasn't a very big room, and it seemed like half the damn roster was crowded into it.

They all started clapping when Seth and Roman got in.

The next couple minutes were a confusion of people swarming them to tell them what a great match that had been, to say congratulations, to slap them on the back and shake hands. It was a mix of the Superstars and Divas and guys in suits – management. The dudes in suits looked pretty damn happy, too. Must have been twenty, thirty people there in that claustrophobic little room, and as cool as that was, Roman was glad to finally push past them all and get out into the hallway.

Seth was grinning ear to ear as he followed Roman out.

They didn't even get a step away from the door, though, when one of the production dudes jogged up to them and said, "Hey, you guys see Ambrose, send him up to the concourse, would you? He's got a few minutes yet before he's due out – probably about ten – but we need him there ASAP. Security's waiting."

Dean had drawn number six for the Rumble, so he'd be in early, unlike Seth and Roman, who had pulled nineteen and twenty-one respectively.

And the reminder was enough to kick Roman into moving again. "Let's start at the locker room," he said.

It was the only place he could think of. Seth nodded. "Hey, how cool was _that_? Standing ovation."

"That was pretty cool," Roman said absently.

If something had happened...

"Never any doubt about it."

"No."

The locker room was down a long hall, around a corner, and down another long hall from where the curtain entrance was. On the way, they passed the big room where the the production guys had set up three big TVs so everyone could watch. Roman poked his head in there real quick and looked around, but it was empty right now.

They made it up to the locker room – a big, wide room with open wooden lockers and wooden benches, tiled floors, and bright white walls – and sure enough, there was Dean.

Roman could see just the top of his head over the top of the lockers. Looked like he was pacing.

He was, Roman saw, when he and Seth made it over to the back of the room, and he looked like he was pissed about something, the way he was flinging his arms around and shaking his head and pounding his fist into his palm. He had his back to them, and it didn't seem like he'd even heard them come in.

Roman put out a hand to stop Seth from going any further, and then walked right up behind Dean.

Dean stopped and turned, nearly running face first into Roman's chest as he did. He jerked to a stop, eyes going wide and expression becoming one of surprise, and then he jumped backward like a damn cartoon character. "What the fuck, Roman?" he snapped as he bounced off the locker behind him. "Jesus."

"What the fuck is right, Ambrose," Seth said, pushing forward. He held up his title belt. "You forget something? Where the fuck were you? Did something happen?"

Dean straightened away from the locker he'd fallen into, blinking. "No. What?" He glanced at Seth's belt. "Oh. The match. You won?"

The surprised way he said it – like he hadn't even known – made Seth's eyes spark, and Roman didn't lift a damn finger to stop him from getting in Dean's face, even when Seth practically pushed him back into the locker. "Yeah, and we fucking won," Seth said through his teeth. He sounded like he was seething. "And we got fucking attacked afterward. Fucking Miz – just outta nowhere. Fortunately, other teams bailed us out. But where hell were _you_?"

Wide-eyed, still looking a little like he wasn't quite sure what was going on, Dean glanced quickly back and forth between Seth and Roman. "Uh, here," he said. "I – you guys all right?"

"No thanks to you, yeah," Seth said. "You didn't even watch, did you?"

"Not – no, well, I did, some, but..." Dean shook his head and pushed past Seth to go stand in the aisle near Roman. "The fuck did the Miz want?"

"We don't know," Seth said, folding his arms over his chest. "But they need you up at the concourse right now, so you better go."

"All right, but I didn't, like...I didn't mean..." He swallowed. "It wasn't on purpose."

Roman stared at a spot over his head. "You better go down for your match. We'll talk later."

"Okay, all right," Dean said. "But, look, you guys won, right? That's the big thing here. We can deal with this Miz shit later. Who cares. You're still the champs. Nobody can touch you. That's what matters."

"We know," Seth said, and Roman didn't say a word.

Dean looked between the two of them like he wanted to say something else, but he ended up just shaking his head again, grabbing his bottle of water off the bench, and walking out without saying anything else.

As soon as he was gone, Seth walked over to his own locker, set his belt on his on his bag, and turned a fuming look Roman's way. "What the hell was _that_?"

Roman forced himself to unclench his jaw. "I don't know, man," he said. "It was kinda weird, though. Wasn't it?"

"When is he _not_ weird?" Seth muttered. He snagged a towel off the bench behind him and used it to wipe his face. He was still sweating like hell.

So was Roman, for that matter, so he did the same, setting his belt down in his locker – he wouldn't need it again tonight – and then turning to reach for a towel. "I hear you," he said. "At least he didn't jumped or something. Should have asked what he was doing up here in the first place. That's what I don't get."

"Ask him later," Seth said. "Right now, I don't really care. I just want to sit here for a minute and enjoy the fact that we kept our titles. That felt like the best mast we've ever had."

"It was, man," Roman said. He unzipped his vest and scrubbed the towel over his chest and shoulders, trying to soak off as much of the sweat as he could. "You and me, we just keep getting better and better."

"Damn right we do." Seth undid his vest and then stripped off his shirt altogether. He dried himself off with the towel like Roman had, and then grabbed another shirt out of his bag. "Well, now we got the Rumble ahead of us."

Roman, who'd caught himself staring at the lean curve of Seth's back as Seth bent over, blinked and set the towel down. "Yeah. The Rumble. Should be fun."

"So let's team up," Seth said. He pulled the shirt on and reached for his vest. "You and me. See if maybe we can get one of us a win. What do you think?"

"Goes without saying," Roman said. He zipped his vest back up. "I got your back."

Seth picked up his vest and gloves. "Well, come on then. I gotta piss first, but then let's head back up. I want to watch."

Roman reached over and clapped his shoulder. "Didn't need to know that."

xXx

They didn't see Dean before he went in. He was up on the concourse instead of back by the curtain with everyone else. Which was fine as far as Roman was concerned.

That whole thing in the locker room a while ago had pissed him off enough that he needed a chance to cool off before he tried to deal with it.

He tried to put it out of mind for now, though, as he stood next to Seth in the room behind the curtain and watched the action in the ring. There were five guys out so far – Punk, who was being beaten to a pulp by Barrett and Regal in the corner, and Christian, who was going at it hard with one the dudes from 3MB – and the countdown to the next guy, Dean, had begun.

The Shield's music hit when the countdown reached zero, and Dean raced down the stairs and through the crowd like his damn shoes were on fire. He slid into the ring and launched himself straight onto Regal and Barrett.

Barrett staggered to one side and Punk slumped down against the ringpost while Dean threw Regal down and started to beat the crap out of him, vicious and furious and completely out of control, just swinging away like he'd snapped. His face was all twisted up as he grabbed Regal's head and slammed it down onto the mat.

The crowd ate it up, but Roman gave Seth an uneasy look.

Finally, Barrett regained his footing and ran over to haul Dean off, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and his pants and just tossing him aside. Dean stumbled back to his feet and jumped right on Barrett's back, wrapping his forearm around Barrett's throat and locking his legs around Barrett's waist. Barrett staggered down to his knees, and Dean rolled away from him to start beating him down like he'd gone after Regal, stomping and kicking and punching.

Regal made it to his feet and knocked Dean down from behind. He came at Dean with a knee, which didn't quite catch Dean square in the face, but was close enough to get him down.

Barrett finally got to his feet, and he and Regal between them made short work of Dean right after that, Regal backing Dean against the ropes and Barrett knocking him over with a big clothesline for the night's first elimination.

It had taken less than a minute.

Roman, who along with Seth, had watched it all play out on the monitor, looked at Seth and said, "That was ugly."

Seth, hand curled tight around his gloves, said, "What the _hell_ is with him tonight?"

"I don't know, but-"

"Oh, fuck," Seth said, pointing.

They watched as Dean pushed to his feet, rage in his eyes. Regal and Barrett were both standing up in the ring right in front of him, leaning over the top rope, laughing at him. Dean flinched toward them, while the ref in the ring and one of the refs on the floor yelled at him to get out.

Dean ignored them and lunged forward to grab Barrett's leg. Barrett fell backward onto his ass, but he managed to kick Dean with his other foot. Dean staggered back a few steps, but set himself like he was about to lunge forward again.

Two refs got in between him and the ring before that could happen, though, and pushed him toward the back. The mics picked up one of them saying, "You're done, Ambrose. Get out."

And Regal, still smiling, called, "Run along now, Ambrose. You've had your little temper tantrum. Now let the serious competitors have their match."

Dean twitched like he was going to make another run for the ring, but the refs pushed him back up the ramp again, and finally he jerked away from them and turned to stalk toward the back.

In the ring, Punk had finally recovered enough to take a run at Barrett while Rey Mysterio made his way down.

As soon Dean stormed back into the little waiting room, red faced and looking like he was about to cut somebody, Seth and Roman both moved right up in his face.

"What the hell was that?" Seth asked through his teeth. "Huh?"

"Get the fuck out of my face," Dean said, deadly quiet as he stared Seth down. Dean was the taller of the two of them by an inch, and had broader shoulders, and right now he seemed to just _tower_ over Seth.

Roman put one hand on Seth's shoulder and pushed Dean back with the other, lightly. "Hey," he said, searching Dean's furious blue eyes for something like control. "Don't."

_Don't do this here, man_.

He was all too aware of everyone else watching them.

And they were, too: eight, ten people turned away from the monitors in the room to watch the three of them.

Dean's gaze flicked to the Roman's hand on Seth's shoulder before returning to Roman's face. Jaw clenched, he nodded.

Roman let go of Seth's shoulder and jerked his head toward the hallway. "Let's take a walk, huh?"

"Fine," Dean muttered, turning to walk away, Roman right behind him.

Seth started to follow, but Roman waved him away. Seth was the best of them when it came to ring strategy and how to win, but when it came to situations like this, he was usually more a problem than a help, with his quick reactions and tendency to blurt out whatever he was thinking – all of which usually just managed to piss Dean off more when he was pissed off like this.

Not that Roman really wanted to deal with Dean's damn temper, but it had kind of become his job by default since they started sleeping together.

They ended up in over by the area where the crew had set all the equipment crates. It was quiet and far enough away from the main hall and the curtained area that Roman was pretty sure they wouldn't be interrupted. He let go of Dean's arm and watched, warily, as Dean stalked over to one of the bigger stacks and turned to lean against it. He squeezed his eyes shut and and hit the stack beside him with the side of his fist, muttering, "_Fuck_."

Roman, deciding it wasn't quite safe to approach yet, hiked his foot up onto one of the light boxes. "You okay?" he asked. "Looked like you got your bell rung out there."

Dean shook his head. "I'm fine. They didn't get me that bad."

You sure?"

"Yeah, probably have a headache in the morning, but it wasn't as bad as it looked." Dean opened his eyes and looked over. "I even make it a minute?"

"Not quite."

"Fuck."

"You got double-teamed," Roman said with a shrug. "Not much you could do about it." He leaned down to tuck his pants leg back into his boot. "You went after 'em pretty hard. What's the deal?"

"Regal was in my ear the whole time you two had your tag match," Dean said. He hit the crates again. "Trying to get in my head. Twist me up and shit. It worked."

Roman shook his head. "What was he saying?"

"Oh just – you know. Same shit everybody else is saying behind my back. Shit I don't even care about. But it's fucking Regal. He knows how to really, like, dig in. Always did." Dean hit the crate for a third time, but this was more a tap than an actual punch. "That's why I didn't make it down. I had to get away from him 'cuz I was about to...like..."

"Do what you did in the ring?" Roman guessed.

"Yeah."

"Makes sense," Roman said. "Guess it's better you do it in the ring than in the locker room. Why was he messing with you?"

"I don't know," Dean said. He scrubbed a hand over his cheek. The tape scraping over the stubble sounded loud in this confined space. "'Cuz I was there, maybe, or – I don't know. He'd probably say he was just trying to have, like, a normal conversation or whatever, but he was digging." The hand fell away. "I'd never do that shit to you guys on purpose. Leave you like that."

"I know," Roman said. He headed over to stand against the big stack next to Dean, and slipped an arm around Dean's shoulders. About half the time Roman did this Dean spun away, but this time he didn't, and Roman felt something in him relax a little. "I know you would have been there. You just need to not let crap like that bother you."

But, just the same, if he got a chance he was going spear William Regal and Wade Barrett both.

Nobody messed with Roman's people.

Nobody.

"Yeah," Dean said. He picked at the tape on his left hand until it came loose, and started unwrapping it. "Not even a minute, huh?"

"No."

"That's real impressive."

"I thought you'd last longer than that, man," Roman said, straight-faced.

Dean shot him a look over his shoulder. "You wanna see how long I can last, I'll show you tonight. We got some celebrating to do, don't we?"

"I'm definitely down, but Seth wants us to go have a beer with him and Kaitlyn after we're done here tonight. Celebrate all of us winning. I want to do that before we head back to the hotel."

"That's fine," Dean said. "And, hey, maybe one of you will win the Rumble, too."

"Maybe," Roman said.

Things fell silent for a bit. Dean finished unwrapping both of his hands, wadded the tape and shoved it all his pocket, and wiped his palms on his pants. He leaned away from Roman enough that he could comb fingers through his hair again – trying to slick it back, but really just making it a mess because it was just long enough that it did whatever the hell it wanted.

He glanced around. "So you gonna talk to Seth? Save me the lecture?"

"He doesn't lecture," Roman said. "He just tells it how he wants it to be."

"Yeah, and jumps my shit every time I don't do it exactly how he wants it done."

"No, he doesn't."

"Then what do you call that shit you guys pulled on me in the locker room? You didn't even ask me why I didn't come down. You just, like, assumed I blew you off on purpose. I fucking _didn't_. Okay? You didn't need to rip my head off."

Roman thought back over what had gone down and in the locker room, and winced. "All right," he said. "Maybe we came at you a little harder than we should have."

"You _think_?"

"All _right_," Roman said. "I'll talk to Seth."

"Thank you."

"He's still gonna want to talk about it, though," Roman said. "About this Regal thing and what happened with the Miz – what we're gonna do."

"Long as it's _talking_, I don't care. But if you guys are just gonna turn it into another fucking lecture about what we do and don't do now, I don't wanna hear it."

"Hey-"

"I'm just saying. This ripping my head off shit every time I fuck up is getting real old. I can't even blow my fuckin' nose lately without you guys telling me I'm doing it wrong."

Roman pulled him in tighter. "We're not ripping your head off. We're trying to help you."

"You know what would real helpful is if you guys would just climb down off my back for a while and let me do what I know how to do," Before Roman could answer, though, Dean shook his head and sighed. "But whatever. I don't really wanna get into this right now."

"All right," Roman said again, "but we're gonna talk about this later. All three of us. You got a problem, you need to speak up. We can't fix if we don't know what it is. You know?"

"...yeah. Well. That's later. You got the Rumble. Better fuckin' win."

"One of us will," Roman said. "When we do, your ass had better be in that ring to celebrate."

"I will be." He shook his head and, to Roman's surprise, started laughing. "You know, some days I think I should just stop wearing this shit-" he pointed down at the black shirt and pants "-and just go get a fuckin' cheerleader outfit. It's what I seem to do best these days. Wonder if Ziggler has any of his old Spirit Squad shit left..."

"Man, you even _think _about asking him, and me and you are done," Roman said seriously. "But if you want to go get yourself one of those little skirts and a little sweater and some pom poms, hey, I'm all for it."

"Always trying to get me in a skirt," Dean said, shaking his head. "Why is that?"

"I don't know," Roman said. "Just something about being able to reach under a skirt, you know? Feeling what's there. Does something for me."

"Reaching under a skirt? I don't know, Rome. Sounds pretty dirty coming from you. Bet you like all that lacy underwear and shit, too, right?"

"Yeah." Roman shook his head, laughing himself now. "How the hell did we get here?"

"Hey, I just said I should dress like a cheerleader. I meant like one of those dudes who gets to grab on girl cheerleaders' asses and tits and shit. Tosses 'em around. You're the one who brought up the skirt." He pulled away from Roman and turned around to face him. He looked, Roman thought, tired, but not as angry as he had. "I'm gonna go clean up a little. I'll meet you guys down at the concourse."

"All right," Roman said. "So you good?"

"Yeah. This fuckin' day. Jesus." He looked off down the hall. "Hey, um. Thanks. For-" he made a vague gesture with one hand "-you know. This. I know I haven't, like...been...like, I haven't..." He let whatever he'd been about to say go and looked back around. "You know I love you, right?"

Roman could only shake his head, exasperated. He had no idea how he hadn't gotten whiplash trying to keep up with this guy and his mood swings. From ready to rip somebody's head off five minutes ago to this.

But he guessed he didn't mind this one as much.

"Yep," he said. "And, you know, you saying things like that, you make it pretty damn hard for me to stay mad at you."

"That's the plan." Dean smirked. "But I'm pretty sure I could piss you off again if you really want me to."

"Nah. I like this better."

"I figured." Without even stopping to see if anybody was coming, Dean leaned in, cupped Roman's face and kissed him, slow and easy, like he did when they were alone in their hotel room and he was trying to get Roman's motor running.

Roman pulled him in close and kissed him right back. He didn't normally go for PDA like this, but as he let his hands slide down to the curve of Dean's ass, he found himself wishing every damn person who'd been staring at them near the curtain would walk right the hell on by.

Like:_ Yeah, that's right. See this? See us? Say something now, huh?_

They'd probably say he was crazy, and they were probably right, but Roman had stopped giving a damn about that a long time ago.

He never thought he'd be the kind of person who actually _dug_ that, thought he'd always go for something a lot quieter and a lot more normal (something he'd probably have with a guy like Seth), but from the minute Dean spun around and decked Triple H with that chair, and then turned around and said, "I love you so fuckin' much, Rome. You get that now?" in the middle of that crazy-ass crowd, Roman not only realized he _was_ kind of nuts but that he also was cool with that.

It went with the territory.

Dean finally pulled back, and as he did, there was heat and that real hungry look in his eyes. "Better be ready for me tonight," he said, and it was almost like a growl, "'cuz, uh, don't think I'm gonna forget about that little dig about my stamina. I got something special in mind for you."

Something pretty hot shot through Roman right about then, and he licked his lips. "What's that?"

"You'll just have to wait to find out," Dean said, smirking again. "Don't want you so distracted you can't win the Rumble. See you guys here in a minute."

He backed around the crates and headed off toward the locker room.

As soon as he was gone, Roman sagged back against the wall, combed his hair back out of his face, and laughed again. He was damned if he knew how it happened, but all of a sudden he felt like he'd won the tag belts all over again – like he could take on the whole damn world.

Damn crazy day, that was for sure.

Still chuckling, he went off to find his tag partner.

xXx

As Roman expected, Seth mellowed out pretty fast once Roman explained the whole Regal thing. Seth wasn't real happy about it – "Can't be letting that shit get to him – but he didn't give Dean a hard time when Dean joined them up on the concourse. It helped that Dean was a hell of a lot calmer himself. He didn't apologize – never did – really didn't say anything, but the fact that he was there put Roman's mind at ease.

Things weren't really tense between them, but none of them said much while they waited for Seth's cue to head down.

Seth pulled his vest and gloves back on, got stretched out, and re-wetted his hair, while Roman swung his arms to loosen them up and try to get himself hyped. He was already feeling the aches and pains from the tag match – sore knee, back sore, shoulder messed up from where he'd caught the ring post earlier – but the adrenaline was still there, still flowing, and it gave him the little boost he needed to push everything aside.

The Shield's music hit for Seth, and Roman turned to him and called, "See you down there, man!" and Dean said, "Go get 'em."

Seth grinned and raced out.

Three quiet minutes later, the Shield's music hit again, and it was time for Roman to go.

Dean grinned, clapped Roman's shoulder, and said, "You got this. See you down there."

Roman nodded, turned, and raced out. He'd been coming out of the crowd like this for over a year, and it always just hit him like a damn tidal wave, all that energy.

Next thing he knew, he was in the ring, and it was time to get to work.

Regal was already gone, Roman saw, but Barrett was not, so Roman got straight down to business.

It took some work; Barrett had two or three other guys around him, and Roman himself got jumped straight away. Seth flew in out of nowhere, though, and bailed him out. Between them, they managed to fight free. Right about that time, Barrett got free.

Seth jumped on Barrett as Roman set himself for a spear. He launched off and hit Barrett so hard it folded Barrett in half, all the fight gone out of him.

Roman and Seth together made real quick work of Barrett after that, and Roman leaned over the top rope to yell, "How do you like _that, _huh?" as Barrett slowly peeled himself up off the ground outside the ring. "Nobody messes with the Shield."

Barrett glared up at him, big fists clenched, but he he took himself away

After he was gone, Seth looked at Roman and said, "Let's do this shit."

So they did.

He'd never been in a Rumble before, and, man, it was wild.

Spears and clotheslines, flying knees and dropkicks, people avoiding elimination by the skin of their teeth – it was exciting as hell. The crowd was hyped. He and Seth worked like they always had, bulldozing guys left and right, and catching each other's backs when they got separated.

They were a _team_, he and Seth, and as a team nobody could touch them.

Next thing Roman knew, the last entrant- Sheamus – headed in.

There were still about twenty guys when that happened.

But in the next blink, there were only fifteen.

Then ten.

_Clothesline...spear...watch out for Seth...power bomb a guy out..._

Then there were five.

Punk and Sheamus eliminated Christian, leaving the two of them with Seth and Roman.

The four of them stood looking at each other from their corners. Then, as if by some telepathic signal, they all ran at each other. Punk and Seth matched up, while Sheamus and Roman went at it.

Sheamus was a big dude, and he was a lot fresher than Roman, who was beat up and slowed way down with his fatigue, so Sheamus had the advantage at first, driving Roman back into a corner and wailing on him with those massive damn fists. Felt like a freight train crashing into Roman's chest.

He looked around for a little help, but Seth looked like he had about all he could handle with Punk.

In fact, as Roman crouched in the corner, exhausted, trying to fend off an onslaught of stomps, Punk connected with a dropkick that sent Seth flying over the top rope. Seth landed hard against the barricade.

And that little distraction, him turning to watch Seth fly out, cost him, because the next thing he knew he had both Punk and Sheamus there on him, just beating the crap out of him. Together they stood him up against the ropes and, even after he managed a brief rally, Punk and Sheamus together managed to flip him out to the floor. He landed on his feet, then tumbled down against the guard rail.

For him, the Rumble was over.

"Damn," he muttered, and slowly picked himself up.

xXx

Seth had stopped to wait for him halfway up the ramp. He pulled Roman into a hard hug. "Fuck," he said. He sounded disappointed and tired as hell. "I thought we had 'em. So damn close."

"We'll get 'em next time, for sure," Roman said. He backed away to swipe the sweat off his face. He was soaked all over again.

"Not bad for a couple first-timers, right?" Seth pulled his hair back off his face, scrubbed his forehead, and turned to head back up to the curtain.

"Not at all," Roman said, following him up.

Sheamus and Punk were still throwing each other around in the ring as Seth and Roman made their way around the curtain and headed down into the little waiting area. The only person who was in there was Daniel Bryan, who still had his WWE Championship match to go tonight. Everyone else was probably in the big room down the hall, where there were three big TVs and plenty of room to spread out.

Probably where Dean was, too, Roman figured.

Daniel waved and called over his congratulations, and Seth and Roman wished him good luck before they headed out. As they reached the door, they heard the crowd roar, and a second later CM Punk's music hit.

Seth turned raised eyebrows Roman's way and said, "He did it."

Roman nodded. "Ran the table."

"That'll be one of us pretty soon," Seth said as they reached the hall. "What a night. You believe this shit? Eighteen months ago, we were nobodies down in Florida, and tonight we blew the roof off the place and kicked ass in the Rumble. Damn."

"Certainly an impressive night, you two," a voice said from their right. Up ahead, near the little area Roman and Dean had gone earlier, was William Regal. He'd already changed into his usual black-on-black-on-black, and now stood leaning sideways against the corner, one foot crossed over the other, hands in his pockets.

Behind and off to the side of him, Wade Barrett and Ryback stood together. Like Regal, they'd changed out of their ring gear – both in jeans and tee shirts. When they heard Regal talk, they both moved forward to stand with Regal at the corner. Ryback pulled himself up to his full height and Barrett, whose face looked like somebody had taken a two-by-four to it, did the same.

Roman and Seth took a few steps closer, and then moved to stand near the side of the hallway so they were out of the way. All the while, Roman kept his eye on Barrett. Barrett really did look bad: one eye swollen halfway shut, three butterfly bandages holding a nasty-looking gash on his forehead closed, what looked like road rash all over one cheek, a busted-open lip, and a bright red welt on his jaw. Worse than that, he looked like he was seeing red. He was a towering guy – even bigger than Roman – and right now all Roman could see was a bull about to charge.

He tensed up, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Seth do the same.

"What, uh, what's up guys?" Seth finally asked. "Wade, what ran you over?"

Barrett started to take a step forward, but stopped when Regal laid a hand on his arm. "There's no need for that," Regal said to him. "I told you I'd handle this, and I will." He cleared his throat, and, hand still on Barrett's forearm, said, "I don't know that he's still here, but you need to have a word with your partner about attacking people without provocation."

Seth shot Roman a puzzled look – _was that English?_ – before looking back over at Regal and shaking his head. "What are you talking about?"

"It means," Barrett snapped, "you'd better keep your dog Ambrose on a tighter leash from now on. If he attacks me again, I'll put him down."

"Whoa, hey, hang on," Seth said. "What exactly happened? Dean attacked you?"

It was Regal who nodded. "He was quite out of control," he said. "It's fortunate that Ryback here followed me up to the locker room. Otherwise..." Frowning, he pulled his hand away from Barrett's forearm, slipped it back into his pocket. "Wade went back straight after his elimination. I stayed behind a minute to chat with Paul Heyman, and then I went up. I found Ambrose slamming Wade's head against the floor. It took both myself and Ryback to pull him away. It was rather alarming, if I'm honest. He was – vicious."

Roman shook his head. There was no way this was legit. None. "He just jumped you?" he asked Barrett. "You walk in and he just comes at you? You don't say anything, maybe get in his face?" He glanced over at Regal before Barrett could answer. "He said you were in his face earlier."

"I wasn't, actually," Regal said mildly. "I did speak with him, but I was only making conversation. Why that set him off the way it did, I have no idea."

"And I didn't say a fucking thing," Barrett said, arms folded over his chest. "He came straight at me."

"Not the behavior one expects from someone who's supposedly on the side of the great and good, is it?" Regal said. "In any case, we'll not be reporting it _this time_, but if this happens again, we will be. Pass that along, would you?"

"And _I'll_ be waiting," Ryback added. He lifted his chin and pointed to a red mark on his neck. "I owe him one. And you know me – I can't stand a bully."

Regal smiled at Roman and Seth. "I do apologize for dropping this on the two of you, considering the night you've had. I imagine the last thing you want right now is to have to deal with something like this. Still, it _does_ need to be dealt with. That temper..." He shook his head again. "I'd just hate to see you two dragged down by it, especially when you're starting your ascent. You've been doing quite well, just the two of you. It does make me wonder why you're even bothering with a third. But that's your business. In any case," he added, straightening away from the wall, "congratulations gentlemen. Have a good night."

With that, he turned and guided Barrett away. Ryback trailed behind him like an overgrown guard dog.

Roman and Seth stared after them, and then finally turned to exchange frowns.

It was Roman who broke the uneasy silence. "Let's go find him."

"Oh, yeah," Seth said. He headed up the hall, and yanked his gloves off. "I know this is kind of complicated for you because of your, you know, relationship, but Roman, if he really did this, I got a real problem with that."

Roman thought about that for a second and shook his head. "Barrett walks in the room, doesn't say a word, and Dean just blindsides him? That make any sense to you?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," Seth said. He unhooked his vest. "You saw how he was earlier. And, okay, so maybe Barrett lied and maybe he did say something, but so what? Like that's any excuse to rearrange a guy's face? Like Regal _talking_ to Dean excuses the way he acted during the Rumble?"

"All right, all right," Roman said quietly. "Lower your voice." They'd entered a highly-trafficked area of the hall, and people were starting to stare. "Let's just go find out what happened, huh?"

"Yeah," Seth said, "sure. Hey, me and you tear it up during the Rumble and we beat three other teams – legitimately – to keep our titles. But, yeah, let's go clean up after Dean again instead of celebrating. That sounds great."

Roman thought about saying something, but decided to just let it go.

He and Seth were solid now as a team, and the last thing he wanted to do was rock that boat. He did that, the Shield probably would break apart, and he was damned if he was about to let that happen now.

If that meant he had to keep his mouth shut and let Seth take his little shots once in a while, he'd do it.

He didn't exactly disagree, anyway; his knee was aching like crazy all over again, the back of his head was sore, and his shoulder was still on fire from the tag match. On top of that, his body felt like it weighed about five hundred pounds between all the sweat that had collected in his clothes and the lead in his arms and legs.

What he really wanted to do was take Dean back to the hotel, get into whatever surprise Dean had for him, and then sleep for a whole damn week.

He and Seth made it up to the locker room, and headed to the back.

They both stopped at the corner, though, just in case.

Dean was there, all right. He was sitting hunched over on the bench in just his cargo pants and socks, staring at the floor. There were, Roman saw, as he made a cautious approach, red marks on his arms and shoulders, along with what looked like the beginnings of a pretty nasty bruise on his side. His left eye was starting to swell a little bit, and there was a cut on his eyebrow, right over that old scar. His hands, which were hanging loose between his knees, still had blood on them. The knuckles were busted open.

Roman sat down beside him.

Without looking up, his voice flat, Dean asked, "The Rumble over?"

"Yeah," Roman said. "We didn't win. Punk did. Third for me, fourth for Seth."

"Hmm. Too bad. Pretty good for your first time, though. Real good night for you guys, huh?"

"Yep." Roman leaned forward the same way Dean was, elbows on his thighs and hands hanging between his knees. "You okay?"

"Uh-huh."

Out of the corner of his eye, Roman saw Seth make his way over. Seth tossed his vest and gloves into his locker behind him, and then sat down on Dean's other side, a little further away than Roman, who was close enough that he could hook an arm around Dean's shoulders if he needed to.

Didn't think he'd need to, though. Dean didn't look angry, didn't look upset, didn't really look _anything _other than shut down, like some kid's toy that had had the battery pulled.

It was Seth who said, "So we just ran into Barrett and Regal just now. They said you jumped Barrett. What the hell happened?"

"Other way around," Dean said. "Barrett came at me. Said something about the Shield not messing with him. I don't know. He pushed me. Then he hit me. Then I hit him back a few times. Ryback and Regal pulled me off. They took Barrett away. Pretty much it."

"You hit him back a few times," Seth said. "Regal said you were out of control."

Dean didn't answer.

"So Barrett hit you first, then?" Roman said.

"Yeah."

"Then what the hell was Regal talking about?" Seth asked. "Reporting you? All that shit about you being all vicious and out of control?"

"I don't know," Dean said. He flexed his hands a few times. One of his knuckles broke open and started bleeding again. "Probably just trying to stir shit up. Just ignore it."

Roman watched the blood as it rolled off of Dean's knuckles and dropped to the floor. "Barrett attacked you, man," he said quietly. "I can't just ignore that."

"Yes, you can," Seth said. "That's exactly what we're gonna do."

Roman looked over at him. "What? Why? If they're messing with us, then we need to deal with it. Figure out what game Regal's running and end it."

"No," Seth said sharply. "We've got enough problems with Henry, Show, and the Miz right now. Plus all the other tag teams in the company who are gunning for us behind them. We don't need to be going to war with Regal and those guys."

"If they're messing with us, we do," Roman argued. The rising bruise on Dean's side was about the size of a baseball right now. It was the kind that was probably going to give him hell for a while. "This ain't gonna happen again. I want to put a stop to whatever they're doing."

"They might not be doing anything," Seth said. "Maybe this was all just some misunderstanding. You know? Barrett lies to Regal, Regal believes him, Regal come to us. Maybe there was no game."

Roman shook his head. "Yeah, but if Regal was digging at Dean earlier-"

"He said he was _talking_ to Dean," Seth said over him. "You remember how they used to be in Florida? Regal could say one thing, and Dean would fly off the handle. Betcha anything that's all that happened today." He glanced at Dean as he said that, but once again, there was no reaction. Seth looked back to Roman. "I know you want a piece of Barrett for this, but you saw his face, man. Looked like Dean already took care of that himself. So let's not go looking for trouble. Like I said, we've got _way_ too much other shit on our plates right now to be doing that."

"But if they do come at us again-"

"Then we'll deal with it," Seth said, shaking his hair off his face. "If you're that worried about it, let's just make sure we stick together when we're at the arenas. That way if Regal or Barrett tries anything else, they can't corner one of us alone. So during matches and whatever else we're doing, nobody's alone. We're gonna have to stick together anyway because I think we're gonna need all three of us to deal with the Show and Henry and Miz thing, so it shouldn't be a big deal."

"All right," Roman said. He didn't like that – didn't like just ignoring problems if he could do something about it – but as long as he could keep Seth and Dean close at arenas, he guessed he'd deal. "If they do come at us, though, we don't let it go a second time."

"Fair enough," Seth said. He got up and headed over to his locker. "I'll ride down with you guys tomorrow so we can figure out how we're gonna handle thing with the Miz and those guys at at _RAW_. Talk about a few other things so we can get back on the same page. Other than that, as long as Dean's okay, I think we're done here, aren't we? So let's get cleaned up, grab Kaitlyn, and get the hell outta here. We got some celebrating to do tonight, boys."

Roman nudged Dean's shoulder with his own. "You need to go see the trainer? Get something for that eye?"

"No, it's fine," Dean said, shaking his head. He lifted his head, blinked a few times like he'd just woken up, and finally looked over. "So third place, huh? Who was second?"

"Sheamus."

"So you outlasted Cena."

Roman grinned at that. "Punk, Seth, and I all took him out."

"Fuckin' nice." Dean smiled, too, but it didn't get anywhere near his eyes. "I think I'm gonna pass on going out. Just wanna get some ice on this shit and go to bed. Forget this fuckin' day. You should go, though."

"Nah, hey, that's all right," Roman said. "I don't have to go out. I can go back with you."

"No, go on," Dean said. "You said you wanted to, so do. Go celebrate, champ. Have fun. Me and you can have our own celebration when I'm not so-" he twisted the air beside his head with a hand "-whatever."

Roman hesitated. "You know, I think I will go back with you."

Dean waved him off. "All I'm gonna do is grab some ice and go to bed. I don't need a babysitter for that. I'm fine. So go on. You two had a huge fuckin' day. Go celebrate. I'll take the car back. You can get a ride with Seth and Kaitlyn."

"If you're sure..."

"Yeah." Dean grabbed his shirt off the floor and got up to head over to his locker.

Roman shrugged and got up to go to his. "Guess it's just us and Kaitlyn," he said to Seth as he passed.

"AJ's coming, too," Seth said. He'd gotten his boots off and now stripped his shirt off. "I guess she and Kaitlyn are talking again, so she can be your, uh, sympathy date."

Laughing, Roman reached over and clapped his shoulder. "Always got my back, man."

"Of course," Seth said. "You know me."

He saw Dean turn and give them both a narrow look, but by the time Roman pulled his hand away from Seth's shoulder, Dean had already turned away again.

Roman decided he didn't even want to know.

He just unstrapped his wrist guards and reached for his bag.

xXx

A couple hours and maybe four beers later, Roman was feeling no pain.

The four of them – Seth, Roman, Kaitlyn, and AJ Lee – ended up in a nice two-story bar not far from their hotel. The place looked pretty new, done up with a lot of chrome and pale wood and big glass windows. There was some kind of birthday party going on down at the bar downstairs, but upstairs there were only a handful of people.

It was late on a Sunday, so Roman wasn't surprised, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

Seth and Kaitlyn were both in good spirits, trading insults and taking turns trying to out smart-ass each other while Roman and AJ looked on in quiet, if awkward, amusement.

AJ had only been out with them once before, and Dean had been around then, so Roman hadn't had much chance to actually talk to her. She had a reputation for being a little not-right in the head – a little like Dean – but so far tonight she'd been pretty quiet, except when she and Kaitlyn started going over how they'd won their match against the Bellas. Then she'd gotten pretty animated, and Roman had had to admit for a little thing, she really was a spitfire.

Kaitlyn was, too.

She was, Roman thought, as he watched her and Seth argue over what kind of shots they should do, a pretty good match for Seth – and not just because she had two-colored hair like Seth. She was sharp, kind of bad ass, and had a pretty damn good sense of humor. Roman had noticed Seth laughing a lot more with her around, that was for sure.

Roman had been pretty surprised the first time Seth had turned up with her.

Dean was convinced – and Roman agreed – that there was no way in hell, not after he chased her for months and months, that she'd just suddenly change her mind.

But she did just that, and two months later, there they were: sitting close together, each with an arm around the other's shoulders, as they did their shots.

Roman smiled along as Seth called for a toast, since they'd all won tonight, and raised his glass, proud and happy for himself and his teammate.

He did kind of wish Dean was here, though.

But that was a fleeting thought, gone as soon as Kaitlyn stood up, caught AJ's eye, and the two of them headed off for the girls' room.

Seth slung his arm across the top of Kaitlyn's chair, smiled a lazy smile, and said, "Hell of a night, huh? Doesn't get much better than this."

Roman set his beer down. "No, it doesn't."

"Me and you, man. We're on our way. I mean, shit, we're already at the top of the food chain where tag teams are, but whenever our ride here ends, we're gonna be looking at a pretty clear path all the way to the top."

"Yup," Roman said. "I think all three of us are."

"Well, if Dean can get his shit together, sure."

"I'm sure he can," Roman said absently. He settled back into own his chair. His head was buzzing, mind working a little slowly, but he still felt good. "Just needs a little more time."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Seth said. He was probably a full beer and two shots ahead of Roman at this point, and was pronouncing his words carefully – like he was getting drunk and trying not to let on.

Roman smiled at that. "Good night for us, though, like you said. Climbing that mountain."

Seth's smile faded. "You ever think about it?"

"What?"

"What happens to us all if you and me lose our titles? What we do next?"

Roman shook his head and picked up his beer again. "No point, is there? Not until we lose. And I don't see that happening for a long-ass time."

Seth was quiet for a few seconds before he said, "The thing I've always noticed about groups like ours is they usually stay together too long. People start turning on each other. They start fighting. I don't want to go out like that. You know? I'd rather us all just agree to end the Shield on our own terms and go our own ways. If we end up in each other's way over a title down the road, well, that's something we'll have to look at. But I'd rather just walk away from this thing when the time comes."

Roman eyed him over the rim of his glass. "When do you think that'll be?"

"Well, for me and you? Probably not for a long time, like you said. Much as I hate fighting the same teams over and over for these titles, I kind of want to see how long we can hang onto 'em. How cool would it be to hold the record for the longest tag title reign?"

"It would be," Roman said. "Long way to go for that, though."

"I think we're over halfway there already, though," Seth pointed out.

"Right, but – so, you and me are working on keeping our titles. Where does that leave Dean?"

Seth scratched his beard. "Well, that's the question. If we can get him to get his shit together and stop screwing around, we can have him take another run at getting his title back, or maybe have him take a run at the Intercontinental title. If he won't, if he doesn't want to, maybe we just let him go. You and I do our thing. He does his. That's where the Shield ends."

"That's cold, man," Roman said. "You'd just drop him like that?"

"No," Seth said. "Of course I wouldn't. What I'm saying is if he wants to be here and do things the way we're doing them now, fine. He's gonna have to stop fucking around and start doing what we ask him to, but as long as he's willing to do that, that's great. Let's keep the team together. But if he's not on board with this, then why make him stay? Yeah, it might suck for you and me if we get outnumbered, but to be honest, I think we can handle it. We've been doing fine so far this year. And have you, like, asked him about any of this?"

"I've never heard him say he wants to get off the team," Roman said. He glanced off at the TV at the wall, and then made himself look at Seth again. "Just says he gets tired of us 'ripping his head off' all the time." He set his beer back down and waved that off. "And, man, I gotta ask, why the hell aren't we going after Barrett and Regal? For real. Ain't like it us to run from a fight. And you know damn well this was no 'misunderstanding.'"

Seth took a long drink from his beer, set it down, and leaned forward with both forearms on the table. "You really want to put Dean in Regal's path again?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "You saw how fucked up that was in Florida. You saw how fucked up it was today. That's why. I mean, I didn't want to say this in the locker room, but I think you're right. I think there's shit going on here we don't know about. But I also know it's nothing I wanna get involved in. We got too much shit of our own to deal with here."

Roman let that settle a while before he nodded. "Okay, yeah," he said. "But we're still gonna deal with 'em if they mess with us."

"That's why, if we're all three gonna stay together, we're gonna stay _together_. Nobody left alone. That way they _can't_ screw with just one of us."

"_If_? We got Show, Henry, and the damn Miz coming at us – for whatever reason – and you're really gonna go there?"

"All right, yeah, all right. You got a point." Seth leaned forward and reached across the table to drop a hand on Roman's tattooed forearm. "Tell you what. We got _Mania_ in like two months, right? So let's table this until after that. Help him as much as we can, back off I guess if we have to, and just – me and you keep doing what we're doing. That work for you?"

Roman thought about that and nodded. "I'm good with that."

"All right, cool," Seth said. "I'm not trying to stir shit up. I genuinely want what's best for all of us."

"I know, man," Roman said. He covered Seth's hand with his own, squeezed it. "It ain't easy when we got two of us doing well and one not."

"And two of us sleeping together," Seth said. "But, hey, we'll figure it out."

"You bet."

"Aw, look at that!" Kaitlyn's voice drifted over. "Male bonding."

"Oh, how sweet," AJ said.

The two girls joined them at the table as Roman and Seth both sat back. Kaitlyn smiled at Seth and put an arm around his shoulder, leaning down to kiss his jaw along his beard line. Seth turned his head and kissed her more fully, hand coming up to cradle her cheek.

Something in Roman went a little tight at that, but he was pretty sure it was just because he was missing Dean.

Pretty sure.

He looked at AJ and said, "Hope you aren't expecting me to say hi like that."

"Well, that's just rude," AJ said as she sat down. "I _missed_ you."

Roman just picked up his beer and laughed, careful not to look at Seth and Kaitlyn.

xXx

It was slouching toward two in the morning when Roman made it back to his hotel room.

He'd lost count of how many beers he'd had, but the fog he had in his head told him he'd probably had one more than he should have. He got about four steps into the room before he realized the lights were already on. Two more steps, and when he looked over at the bed, he saw it was messy but empty.

He backed up and looked at the bathroom door. The light was on there, too, and it was also empty.

Frowning, Roman walked back out into the main room, already reaching for his phone.

When he looked at the bed again, though, he saw one of the hotel notepads right at the foot. There was writing on it. Roman picked it up and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Dean's handwriting was bad enough that even stone sober Roman had trouble reading it. This close to drunk, he had to squint at it and tilt the notepad into the light to try to make sense of the scrawl.

_Couldn't sleep,_ it said. _Went for a walk. Back soon_.

He was still trying to wrap his brain around all that when the door opened and Dean walked in.

Dean was all bundled in his winter stuff like he'd been out in this frigid-ass weather. He had a grocery bag in one hand, Roman saw, and the first thing he did was walk over to the table o the far side of the room and set it down. "Hey," he said as he did. "You just get back?"

Roman blinked down at himself. He hadn't taken his coat off yet. "Just a minute ago. What're you doing up?"

"Insomnia," Dean said. He took off his gloves and his own coat, tossing both onto the table with his hat and scarf. "You have a good time?"

"Yeah," Roman said. He set the notepad down. "It was good. Me 'n Seth and the girls. We had fun. Where'd you go?"

"Just for a walk." Dean reached into the grocery bag and pulled out a small bottle of water. He twisted the cap off and then walked over to hand Roman the bottle. "Here," he said. "Drink this."

Roman took the bottle without comment and drank the whole thing. When he was done, Dean took the empty bottle and tossed it in the trash. Then he came back to the bed, grabbed Roman's hand, and pulled him to his feet. Dean unzipped Roman's coat and tugged it off of him, while Roman just watched, smiling a little, amused.

He could have done it himself, but he didn't mind: it gave him a nice view.

Dean was wearing that gray long-sleeved shirt of his that was just a little too tight on him now that had had all that extra muscle on him and jeans that hugged his ass just right. His hair – still a little too short for Roman's liking – was a crazy, staticky mess thanks to his hat. His cheeks were red from being outside.

And he smelled very good.

He tossed Roman's coat toward the chair, and then turned to look at Roman again.

His eye, Roman saw then, had really started to bruise.

Dean flinched away when Roman reached toward it. "Don't," he said. "Fuckin' hurts."

Roman dropped his hand clumsily onto Dean's chest. He brought the other one around the back of Dean's neck. "'Somnia, huh? Shoulda come down to the bar. Celebrated."

Dean didn't really say anything to that, so Roman just pulled him in and kissed him, fast and hard and possessive and a little sloppy. He held Dean tight and didn't let go, even when Dean tried to pull away.

It didn't last long; Dean gave in almost immediately, sighing, and bringing his hands up to the sides of Roman's face. He slowed the kiss down somehow, made it less biting and more gentle.

Roman let his own hands wander down to the curve of Dean's ass.

Man, Seth had a great body, but Dean in these jeans...

Dean stepped away then, pulling back so he could take Roman's shirt off. He kissed his way down Roman's chest, teeth grazing here and there, tongue drawing wet stripes over Roman's pecs and nipples. Roman kept his hands loose around the back of Dean's head and shoulders, eyes closed, swaying just a little, soaking it all in, breathing picking up when Dean nipped _there _just right and sucked _right there_ like Roman liked it.

In no time, Roman was hard, cock pushing against the confines of his pants and boxers.

When Dean finally undid Roman's jeans and slid them down, it was a relief. But Dean didn't touch Roman's cock just yet. Instead, he had Roman sit down on the edge of the bed, and knelt down to pull Roman's shoes off.. That done, he finished stripping Roman's pants and boxers, and then moved between Roman's legs.

Roman bent over and kissed him again, sloppily, one hand running up the stubbly side of Dean's face, until one of Dean's hands stole out and wrapped itself around Roman's cock.

At the first slow lick from his balls up to the very tip of his cock, Roman sank back onto his elbows, breath hissing between this teeth, eyes closing, just about everything gone out of his head except the sensations around his cock: the long stretches of his cock being swallowed and sucked hard, followed by more those slow licks, his balls getting sucked one at a time and then rolled and stroked.

It was feeling drunk and everything spinning out into hazy pleasure and his mind slipping into the well-worn grooves of an old fantasy: Seth on his knees, hair down around his face, dark eyes looking up as he sucked and licked and stroked, and god, it was good, it was amazing, it was like this: being taken in, sucked, licked, and just worked over until he was right _there_.

The pressure, the heat, the movement – it built and built until, at last, he came, muttering – "oh, _shit_, Seth" – as it rushed through him in a wave, hard enough to leave him breathless, to make his body buzz. He could only squeeze the blankets and ride it out, shuddering, until it was over.

Finally, he sagged back onto the mattress, breathing hard, hands relaxing on the blankets.

After a little bit, he heard the bathroom door click shut and the sounds of the water running. He dragged himself up more fully onto the bed, pulling the covers back so he could get under then, and then propping himself up against the pillows. His eyes kept trying to close, but he blinked them open as he waited for for Dean to get done in the bathroom.

Dean came out, stripped down to just a tee shirt and his underwear. He tossed his clothes onto the floor, flipped off the lights, and crawled in under the covers. He curled up on his side, his back to Roman.

Confused, Roman touched his back. "Hey," he said. "Don't you want...?"

"No," Dean said through a yawn. "Night, Rome."

Roman pulled his hand away. "Good night."

He shifted again so he was more comfortable, and let himself drift off.

xXx

Dean woke him up sometime around around eight, shoved a bottle of Gatorade and some aspirin in his hand, and told him Seth wanted to hit the road in about an hour.

Feeling slow and stupid and sore, Roman took the aspirin, down the Gatorade, and made his way out of bed to get ready for the day. The dull pounding in his temples subsided pretty fast once the aspirin kicked in, but it didn't do much for the lingering tiredness or the general ache in his body.

The Shield was the best around, but, man, it came at a price – night after night of kicking ass and taking names, it took its toll on his body.

But he wasn't going to complain.

He showered and dressed, then wandered back out into the room to finish packing his bag.

As he was doing that, Dean showed back up from where he'd run off to with a couple of plates full of food.

Roman's stomach rumbled when he caught the first whiff of eggs, and he smiled gratefully at Dean, who smiled back, gently, eyes warming.

That dead toy look was gone from his face this morning, Roman was relieved to see.

They ate well, the both of them, without saying a whole lot. Roman spent most of his time trying to sneak a good look at Dean's eye before he finally threw down his fork, and reached over to grab Dean's chin. The bruise had darkened a little overnight and had spread to cover Dean eye from eyebrow to cheekbone, but it looked like some of the swelling had at least gone down.

"It's fine," was all he said when Roman asked.

They finished eathing, and Dean cleared away the plates while Roman walked over to zip up his suitcase.

As Dean was straightening away from the garbage can, he winced, breath catching audibly, hand flying to his side.

Roman was on him in a flat second. "You all right?"

Dean grit his teeth and nodded.

"Let me see," Roman said, nodding to Dean's side, where he remembered seeing the beginning of a pretty nasty bruise last night.

Dean lifted up his hoodie – it was a loose black one instead of the usual tighter Hard Rock one he liked to wear – and the tee shirt underneath to expose his right side.

Roman whistled. The bruise, which lay right over Dean's lower ribs, was about the size of a grapefruit, all faint blues and purples. It had a dark red mark in the middle. "What the hell happened there?" Roman asked.

"Hit the corner of the bench when Ryback threw me off Barrett," Dean said. He lowered his shirt. "Nothing broken, but it sure shit knocked the wind out of me. The fight, too. Damn."

"You sure you're okay? That looks pretty nasty."

"Yeah, it's a bitch, but I'll live. Probably just be a little slow for a day or two. We do any matches or anything, you and Seth'll probably have to work most of it. But if you guys need me, I'll be there." He rolled the hoodie down and headed over to his own suitcase, which was sitting on the desk. His back partly to Roman he said, "You know, you called me Seth again."

Roman froze, staring at the line of Dean's jaw, stomach dropping like a stone.

Had he?

Things this morning were a little muzzy in his head, but he remembered Dean pushing him down and the blowjob, and thinking...

He had.

"So I'm thinking," Dean went on, not looking around, "maybe we need to, like, invite him and Kaitlyn up for a foursome or something."

Sure he hadn't heard right, Roman said, "Say _what?"_

"I'm serious," Dean said. "Like, I was kind of joking with Kaitlyn about this the other day, and I don't know if, like, she'd seriously go for it, but I kind of think she liked the idea. Like, enough maybe we could talk to her about it sometime. If we could get her up for it, she might be able to talk Seth into it. Or, I don't know, maybe you could see if Seth's up for it, and have him talk to her."

"About us all having sex together," Roman said.

"Yeah."

"Uh..." Roman blinked. "I don't even know where to _start _with this, man. Where did this come from?"

"I dunno," Dean said. He finished zipping his suitcase. "Just thought it was something you'd maybe wanna try. Especially since..." He shrugged, tossed his suitcase onto the floor and turned around. He was frowning, but more like he was thinking than like he was mad. "Guess it is kind of a stupid idea."

"No," Roman said, shaking his head. "I didn't say it was a stupid idea. I like it. I'm just not sure Seth or Kaitlyn would go for it. I know Seth jokes around about joining us sometimes, but I don't think he's really into guys."

Dean grabbed his beanie off the nightstand and pulled it on. "Well, maybe he is, maybe he isn't," he said. "Won't hurt to ask, though. If you wanted. It's up to you. Like I said, just something to think about."

Roman looked at him carefully. "But you'd be okay with it?"

"Yeah," Dean said. He hooked his scarf around his neck. "It's something you obviously want, I think it'd be hotter than fuck, and here's a way we might be able to make it happen, so why not do it?"

"Is it something you want?"

"It's sex, Rome. I always do."

Roman picked up his coat and pulled it on. "Then what happened last night?"

Dean went very still, eyes locked on Roman's. "What?"

"This morning, I mean," Roman said. "You didn't want me to return the favor. That because I called you Seth?"

"Oh." Dean cleared his throat, shook his head. He pulled his own coat on, grimacing. "That. No, I was just beat. Sore. I didn't sleep at all when you were gone, and, you know, going out, uh, for that walk wore me out."

Roman frowned at that. "The hell were you even doing wandering around out in that cold at one in the morning? Where did you even _go_?"

Dean pulled up the handle on his suitcase. "Just around. Down to the gas station. I was tired of laying around staring at fuckin' infomercials. So are we good here? 'Cuz we gotta go. Seth's gonna be kicking the door down in a second."

"Yeah, we're good," Roman said. He did, though, cross the room to wrap Dean up and kiss him thoroughly. Afterward, he drew back enough to look him in the eyes. "I am really sorry about the Seth thing, Dean," he said. "Especially 'cuz you were taking such good care of me."

Dean smiled a real smile as he pulled away, reached for his suitcase, and wheeled it off toward the door. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Not like I never fuck up, right?"

"Yeah, well," Roman said. "I'll make it up to you."

"Oh, you will," Dean said quietly, hand on the doorknob. "Think about this thing with Seth and Kaitlyn. It could be pretty fuckin' wild. You know?"

"Yeah," Roman said. "Yeah, it could. And I will."

He would, too – a lot, he was sure – but he doubted anything would come of it.

Once upon a time, way back in Florida, back before Dean had even gotten there, Roman had made a clumsy overture and Seth had shot him down. Not into guys, he'd said. That wasn't just something that would change.

It was a nice thought, though, crazy as it was, Roman couldn't help smiling at Dean's back all the way down to the car.

xXx

RAW that night was about a two and a half hour drive away.

Seth, who looked like he wasn't feeling his hangover at all, drove. He was in a good mood, too, and spent the entire drive talking business, throwing out guesses about why the hell the Miz – of all people – had come down to attack them last night, offering suggestions to Dean about ways Dean could maybe tweak his offense to avoid some of the more questionable tactics he'd gotten used to using (which Dean, sitting in the back seat, just smiled at), and laying out his strategy for dealing with the Miz.

The three of them hadn't ridden together since Seth and Kaitlyn had started dating, and Roman, sitting in the passenger seat, thought it was a nice change of pace.

Once they pulled into town, it was business as usual: the hotel to check in, a few hours at the gym (for Seth; Roman stopped after about two, and Dean, whose side was definitely bothering him, stopped after about ninety mintues), a late lunch, back to the hotel for a nap, and then to the arena.

All things considered, Roman thought, as he sat on a folding chair in a quiet corner just outside one of the arena's concourse entrances, it had been a pretty nice day, relaxed and calm despite all the uncertainty hanging over the three of them.

Turned out Roman and Seth were scheduled to defend their tag titles against Show and Henry that night, so as showtime approached, Seth, who, like Dean and Roman, was already fully dressed in his Shield gear – minus the gloves – stood up and started pacing while he laid out for Dean and Roman just exactly how he wanted thing to go tonight.

Seth was starting to wind down, and people were starting to file past them on the way into the arena itself when, when Dean suddenly stiffened, gaze locked on a point over Seth's head, like a dog that had spotted a rabbit.

Roman followed his gaze and saw William Regal approaching. Regal, wearing a white shirt, black vest, and black slacks, was alone.

He smiled vaguely as Dean and Roman both stood up, and said, "Here you are. I've been looking for you three."

Roman moved close to Dean's side and put an arm around his shoulder. Seth stepped back so he was on Dean's other side.

Regal's smile widened.

Dean, meanwhile, said, "What the hell do you want?"

Regal looked at him and said, mildly, "Quite a night we had last night, wasn't it, dear boy?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Roman saw Dean's head jerk up. He looked over and saw Dean staring at Regal with that same sort of frozen look he'd given Roman earlier. "What?"

Regal tiled his head to one side as the smile became a smirk. "Between your teammates' busy night and your run-in with Wade, I'd say it was quite eventful, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, real fucking eventful," Dean said roughly. "What do you want?"

"To apologize to your teammates, actually," Regal said. "And you, I suppose, if what I said to them last night caused you any undue strain." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "In speaking to Wade again this morning, I learned I'd been...misinformed about who attacked whom last night."

"Yeah, we know," Seth said. "Barrett came after Dean."

"You think we bought any of the crap you said?" Roman asked. He tightened his grip on Dean's shoulders. "Nah. We know this guy better than that."

"Do you," Regal said. "Well, in any event, I wanted to apologize for misleading you. I'm not just sure what prompted Wade to attack as he did, but I can assure you it won't happen again. We won't be bothering you from now on. All we ask in return is you extend us the same courtesy."

"What, just like that?" Seth asked. "After all the crap you pulled last night, that's it?"

"I'll be far too busy grooming Wade for his future reign as WWE Champion," Regal said, glancing at Dean again. "I'm afraid that won't leave me time for petty games."

Seth shook his head. "You're saying all that was just a _game_?"

"Yes," Regal said. He nodded at them. "One that appears to have done your team some good, actually. You haven't shown such a united front since last year. To hear everyone talking last night, you were fraying apart at the seams."

Roman shook his head. "We're strong as we always were, man. Nobody gets between us."

"No," Regal said thoughtfully. "I imagine when you do finally come apart, it'll be from the inside out. I just wonder which one of you will implode first."

Dean shifted under Roman's arm. "You're usually more subtle than that, you know," he said. "But, uh, no time for games, huh?"

Regal's little smirk became a bright, creepy smile. He directed it over at Dean. "Old habits, I'm afraid. Do watch that temper of yours. Tends to lead you to do things you really shouldn't. Doesn't it? Overreactions and things of that nature."

Roman looked over at Dean again, whose jaw was clenched. "Yeah," he said tightly. "Shit I won't do again."

If anything, Regal's smile widened. "Oh, I doubt that very much," he said, and he sounded smug. "You can't help what you are." He waved that off. "I've kept you three long enough. I know you have a busy night ahead of you. As I said, let this drop, and we'll do the same. Good evening, gentleman."

He nodded at them again and walked away, still smiling.

They watched him leave, and when he disappeared around the corner, Seth moved to stand in front of Dean and Roman again. "Anybody mind telling me what the fuck just happened there? Holy crap."

"To be honest with you," Roman said, "I want to know that myself."

If this was any indication of what Regal had said to Dean yesterday, it really wasn't any wonder Dean had snapped. Roman had to force himself to uncurl his fists.

"Sounded like he was calling a truce," Dean said. He was staring off in the direction Regal had gone. "I think. I don't know. I know I always say it, but who the fuck really knows with that guy?"

"He seemed so cool when I first got to FCW," Seth said then. "But man did he change once..." He trailed off and jerked his chin at Dean.

"He didn't change," Dean said. "He just went back to being what he's always been. A 'true villain'."

Frowning, still bothered by the whole thing, Roman turned to him and said, "So what did he mean? 'You can't help what you are'?"

"He thinks I'm just like him," Dean said. "You see what I mean, though? He can't just come say, 'Wade lied, I'm sorry, let's just chalk it up to a misunderstanding and move on.' He's gotta _dig_. Like that shit he was saying about how 'Oh, which one of you is going to break the team apart?' Stupid shit like that, where it's like, 'Really? Fuck you.' That's what he was doing to me yesterday. Only more than that. So much for 'just talking' right?"

"Yeah," Roman said. "But it's just bullshit anyway."

"It is," Seth said, "He kept saying that at FCW, too, how you guys were alike, but I never saw it. You were both bad guys, was all, but just because two guys are bad guys doesn't mean they're anything alike. You know? You _have_ changed."

"For sure," Roman said. "You're nothing like him. Trust me. I know you better than that."

_Do you_.

Finally, Dean turned away from where he'd been staring again and looked at Seth and Roman. Roman could tell just by the way his gaze cut back and forth between them that he wanted to say something, but he ended up just scrubbing a hand over his cheek and saying, "Yeah. Anyway, so I had an idea about this Miz thing..."

xXx

A/N: If you seriously made it to the end of this thing, congratulations. Chapters from here on out will NOT be this long. Next one will go back to Regal and will be the flip side of this chapter – we'll get to see Regal's games during the Rumble. As always, thanks for reading.


End file.
